


Accensum/Reckoned Among

by biguglybird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Aging, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Cannaburst AKA wizard weed, Character Study, Codependency, Depressed Ron Weasley, Divorce, Draco Malfoy & Ron Weasley Friendship, F/M, Gay Harry Potter, Golden trio forever, Grief/Mourning, Harry Potter & Ron Weasley Friendship, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Spoilers, M/M, Married Life, Mental Health Issues, Midlife Crisis, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Ron Weasley, Post-Canon, Post-Divorce, Romance, Sexuality Crisis, Some Alcohol Use, Stoner Dad Ron Weasley, Weed culture, Worldbuilding, sad dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:43:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20852135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biguglybird/pseuds/biguglybird
Summary: "A midlife crisis was not outside the realm of possibility."Decades after he receives it, the deluminator serves as a catalyst for a clinically depressed Ron Weasley to rediscover his identity. Widower Draco Malfoy befriends a recently divorced Harry Potter while trying to make sense of what this might mean. Harry's finally ready for a dam to burst, Hermione's ready for a little rebellion, Ginny is ready to stop living a fantasy, and George is ready for a brother’s brother.Cursed Child compliant at first (ish), set in 2023. Told from Ron and Draco's POVs but more focused on Ron.





	1. Simple Math

**Author's Note:**

> This is primarily about Ron Weasley digging himself out of a funk and becoming his own (business)man. This is also about Draco Malfoy and his blossoming relationship with Harry Potter. More of an outright Draco and Harry romance, with Ron and Hermione in a happy and complex marriage. Side Ginny/Krum for fun. 
> 
> This is Rowling's world and characters, based on the original series, with some Cursed Child plot points/spoilers. I would not say I use CC characterization for any of the main characters because it’s absolute madness, but I was interested in seeing what might come after it. Everything is JKR's and company, but I did come up with the cannaburst lore and spells, as well as this story, obviously. 
> 
> M rating: pro-marijuana, 420 blaze it etc, explores what cannabis might look like in the wizarding world. There's mental illness, suicidal ideation, and grief, and some sexual content in later chapters. 
> 
> My lads "Anderson" and "Peter B" were instrumental in finally getting this thing off the ground, and I am so grateful to you both!!

I. 

In spite of the fact that Hermione kept pointedly referencing muggle articles about the importance of going to bed early, Ron found he could concentrate better when the sun had long gone down. Plus, not having to be anywhere in the morning meant there was no reason to rush off to bed. Hermione said this was the point of view of a depressed person. But now, entering his later years, he could unmake himself and start again.

Hermione opined that her early forties were hardly her later years, especially after all they’d endured, and the privilege she felt in aging was reminiscent of her gratitude for the ability to perform magic. That wonder, more so than her sharp intelligence, fueled her ambition. It kept Ron up at night; the shiny, gleaming newness of the Wizarding World stretched out before his Minister for Magic wife like a perfect canvas, while he counted his grey hairs and tended house.

Hermione would say this was _ anti-feminist. _Which, it wasn’t that Ron wasn’t fulfilled by raising his children, or anything. It was just that he wasn’t sure how to suddenly start articulating his emotions, not when they were big and inconvenient. People didn’t expect much from him, as a general rule.

He’d had enough lectures from Hermione about lying by omission, but this felt different. There were worse things than sparing fucked up people from learning some fairly fucked up information, particularly from someone who wasn’t known to deliver any. Ron’s worst traumas were another Tuesday for Harry, Ron, or Hermione. His ennui, or misery, or whatever it was, embarrassed him, but it was stubbornly there all the same. 

What exactly was the point of life, if more of it waited for you after death?

Maybe he never learned how to mourn Fred properly because the loss didn’t belong to him. Fred belonged to George, Ron’s parents, and to Harry, even, knowing the sacrifices people made for him. Ron gave people the humor he figured they needed, and clamped down on his own war wounds until they festered at inopportune moments.

At his wedding, Ron was determined to forget a joke Fred had made about getting married, and ended up too drunk to remember any of the reception. Ron continued to wrestle with this grief void, the void that made you believe everything was pointless if your brother could be twenty forever, at peace watching you from the next world, while your wife and children stop needing you in this one.

Hermione, of course, had guessed some of how he was feeling. He hadn’t stayed married for twenty-one years by completely closing himself off from his wife. She knew he felt directionless and missed his kids, and that he’d been unhappy, and these things were not untrue.

He was consumed by the idea that he was a loser. He was, in all likelihood, jealous of his dead brother. He was afraid vocalizing this would be the thing that made Hermione leave him, or Harry or Ginny to shake their heads and say there was no walking back from that one. 

Cannaburst dampened the effects of these unwelcome thoughts. It would be wrong to attribute this rekindled love to Fred, but he knew Fred would appreciate it nonetheless. 

Fred had given him his first puff for his seventeenth, a few days before he’d gotten himself poisoned. Fred and George had met him in Hogsmeade at a pub he’d never seen but was, if possible, even dodgier than the Hog’s Head. It was nameless and appeared to be more of a studio flat than a pub at all, sandwiched between Tomes and Scrolls and another private home with a miserable, peeling paint job. 

“Cheers, happy birthday to me then,” Ron had said grumpily when the rain started pelting down on them before they’d even reached Tomes and Scrolls.

“Good things come to those who wait,” George said, with what he may have felt was enigmatic flair. A wizard in jeans and a low, snug cap answered Fred’s knock at the door, which involved a series of counts of three and pausing. 

“Password?”

Fred and George looked expectantly at Ron. “I--what?” 

“Just kidding, Ronnie. _ Accensum _,” said Fred, and the door swung open into a cloud of haze unlike any Ron had seen, or, for that matter, smelled.

The smoke flickered, but it wasn’t like when a flame caught the light. It was shinier than smoke should be, twisting this way and that, rapidly changing from gray to green. Ron couldn’t find the source of the smoke at first and stifled a cough, willing himself not to do anything stupid.

Shaking the rain out of his hair, he observed that the wizards and witches, seated on lopsided chairs and couches, were all smoking from pipes that glowed faintly in the semidarkness. Two witches did their best to circulate the tiny, cramped room with trays of beer and bundles of something floating overhead. 

Ron watched as a man who didn’t look much older than he helped himself to a bundle of glowing green leaves, tossing a few galleons in its place and giving the pretty blonde witch an unnecessary pat on the arm. (Ron felt guilty for a moment, knowing what Hermione would say about that, and for that matter, the whole scene, but she wasn’t here, was she?) People were chatting quietly, some with red-rimmed eyes, sloshing their mugs of beer and laughing. 

“Is this what I think it is?” 

Fred clapped him on the back so hard he coughed, and Fred laughed. “Contact high already, are we? Lightweight.”

“But this is...I mean, it’s….” he was at a loss for words. 

“Do you like it?” said Fred. His tone was light but there was a hint of genuine concern in his voice, which Ron should have been touched by but instead found patronizing. He was of age now, after all. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Obviously. I mean, it’s brilliant, actually. I had no idea this place…”

“That’s the point,” said George. “Inconspicuous, as we who partake in the healthful benefits of cannaburst are still tragically deemed criminal by ministry blowhards.”

“Sometimes those very blowhards snitch to Mum about the stash in your bedroom,” said Fred, who was trying to wave down one of the tray witches. 

“Is that why she kicked you out?”

“We felt our years of being reared at the Burrow had reached a natural conclusion,” said George, but there was a tightness in his smile that suggested the subject wasn’t up for discussion.

A tray witch had found them. She was quite pretty, small and dark skinned, with corkscrew curls. Ron wished she didn’t remind him of Hermione, as he wasn’t up for a karmic test. He stuffed his hands into his pockets for lack of something else to do with them.

“Birthday boy’s choice,” said George. This may have been a little underhanded, as Ron hardly had the experience to make a choice without sounding like a dickhead.

Fred seemed to differ with George on this approach. He stepped in front of Ron and examined, with relish, the two different bundles of cannaburst on the tray in front of them. The first was darker, with more compact leaves and a silver undertone, whereas the other was a true green, and glowed a luminous copper. “You’ll want Merlin’s Magic,” said Fred, referring to the coppery one.

“We’ll want, er, Merlin’s Magic,” said Ron.

“I heard you the first time, ginge,” the tray witch said irritably. She was also dressed in muggle clothes. It was strange, to be in Hogsmeade and see people eschewing traditional hats and robes. Ron wondered what Hermione would say about that.

The witch held out her hand for payment. Ron was not about to vocalize his lack of funds to her, and figured Fred and George weren’t so cruel as to surprise him with a gift he couldn’t afford. Sure enough, George (who’d always been a show-off) placed several galleons and a few sickles on the tray. The tray witch giggled and Fred rolled his eyes.

“Thanks,” Ron muttered. He took the bundle of Merlin’s Magic and immediately handed it to Fred, not bothering to pretend he knew what to do with it. He followed Fred and George to an empty couch in the corner, where they all squished uncomfortably close together. 

The rain drummed on against the lightly thumping music, a song by a band that sounded like the Weird Sisters, but wasn’t. 

George produced a small, clear pipe from his canvas jacket while Fred broke a generous pinch of Merlin’s Magic off its stem. It seemed to twinkle more brightly once it was deposited into the pipe’s chamber.

“_ Lumos accensum _!” said Fred, holding the tip of his wand against the bowl. There was a pop as the contents of the pipe were set aflame, burning so intensely Ron couldn’t understand how it was meant to be smoked at all, until the sparks settled. 

“I’m not going first and looking like a git,” Ron said immediately. 

“We all cough the first time, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said George. “It’s bad manners for Fred to take the first hit.” 

“I’ll watch you, then, George.” 

George looked at Ron with what might have been fondness and took the pipe. “There’s nothing for it, brother. Just inhale, hold it in a bit, then exhale.” George blew out a smoke ring and flicked his wand lazily. The smoke became a twisty_ W _ before it faded into the ceiling cloud.

Ron held the pipe with obvious trepidation. “It’s not a clitoris, Ron,” said Fred lazily. “No need to be so delicate.”

“Well that’s just confusing, Freddie, he won’t know about that either.”

Ron bit back a retort and put the pipe to his lips. He inhaled. The smoke that filled his lungs was far sweeter than he’d expected it to be, though still herbal. 

“You’ll want to blow it out now before it comes out your ears,” said George helpfully. 

Ron exhaled. He coughed a little into his sleeve. 

“That’s good, coughing,” said Fred. “Gets it moving through the system more.”

Ron watched the smoke join the cloud on the ceiling. He felt his body relax into the couch. There was a pleasant tingling sensation.

“Oh, go on, one more,” said George. “For the birthday boy.”

Ron obliged. The second time he was braver, taking a larger hit. He coughed harder but he didn’t mind. It was like the cannaburst gently massaged away the knot of self-consciousness in his stomach and chest. He had an unexpected rush of fondness for both his brothers, seated so closely on either side of him.

“We love you too, Ronniekins,” said Fred, catching Ron’s smile.

“I didn’t say--”

“The cannaburst will do that to you,” said George. “You’ll want to be careful with that, mind. Once I swore Fred was about to snog cousin Mathilde he was so--”

“Rich coming from someone who ate us out of pumpkin pasties twice in the last month!”

“Is it always like this?” Ron asked. His voice sounded normal to him, but a little far away. “I mean, I feel...good but...” He could go for a pumpkin pasty, come to think of it.

“Depends,” said Fred. “Merlin’s Magic is less stimulating, and it will definitely make you want to shag and eat everything in site. Great for aches and pains, you know? And stress, like.” Ron thought of Harry instantly.

“On the other hand,” said George, “Your Goblin Giggles will keep you nice and energized. Not as much of a couch melter. Some people get paranoid, though.”

“I want to try that, too,” said Ron.

“Think we’re made of money, do you?” said Fred. 

Ron blushed. “No, I--”

“You’re all right,” said Fred. “Next time. Promise.”

Later, before the twins went back to their flat above the shop, Fred pressed something into Ron’s hand. 

“A book?” Ron asked incredulously.

“I know, but I thought you might want to...give it a look over. I think Hermione will be pleased.”

“_Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches,_” Ron read. “Er, Hermione isn’t...we’re friends. I’m with Lavender Brown now.”

“Oh,” said Fred, looking surprised. “I thought...never mind. Well, this will help you along with Lavender, then, if that’s something you want.”

“Actually,” said Ron, growing confident after the evening’s events, “I’ve been meaning to ditch her.”

“Playing the field?” asked Fred.

“Not exactly,” said Ron. “Just, you know, there might be someone else, maybe, I don’t know. I’m not good at this.”

“This will tell you all you need to know,” said Fred. “Plus, I’m sure Herm--I mean, this mystery bird, whoever she is, already knows that and likes you anyway.” He ruffled Ron’s hair, then, apparently as surprised at Ron at this show of affection, said, “Assuming she’s as stupid as you, that is.”

“Unfortunately, she’s a genius,” said Ron. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

*

After the war, cannaburst restrictions were so loosened that Ron smoked it in the first flat he shared with Hermione. There wasn’t even an argument about it. She would have probably agreed to him keeping a hippogriff in the backyard for their emotional healing, in those days. He got Hermione to try cannaburst once, and she contended that it helped with the nightmares, but it made her a bit paranoid. 

Then she’d gone to clerk in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and he got rid of his stash without being asked. He wasn’t about to add “shit husband” to his list of recent personal failings (he imagined it ranked somewhere between “drunken groom” and “generally a quitter”). Rose came soon after that, and then Hugo, and Ron liked his life as a doting dad. 

As a new minister, legalization had crossed Hermione’s desk more than once, but she demurred, not wanting to seem like she had questionable priorities. Once there was majority support from both the ministry and general population, she signed the ordinance permitting cannaburst possession and sale.

It was Hermione who suggested Ron start smoking again, though he knew not even Harry would believe that one. 

A few weeks ago, she said he was grinding his teeth in his sleep. Perhaps, she had said, they should go on holiday somewhere. Ron replied he didn’t have anything to take a holiday from, and that maybe she should go with Ginny instead.

“Ron,” said Hermione from her vanity mirror, “I think something is really wrong.”

“I told you last week, I haven’t noticed any difference with the new hair, what d y’call it, serum--”

“Do shut up. You’re grinding your teeth, you don’t want a vacation, you don’t want to go back to the shop, you haven’t been initiating sex--”

Ron did not care for where this was going, especially because she was right. He sat up from his side of the bed. “For fuck’s sake, you act like I’ve resigned us both to a lifetime of celibacy just because I’m having an off month--”

“Seventy days is not an ‘off month’, Ron!” Her voice was a bit high, but she was still applying her cold cream. 

Ron laughed, then immediately said, “I’m not laughing at you, I’m just...do you have a tally in the kitchen somewhere?”

“Really funny, so glad you find this all amusing, and just because _ you _can’t do sums in your head doesn’t mean I don’t know how many days make up more than two months!” Hermione had stopped her maddeningly intricate facial routine and was facing him, rubbing her temples. She seemed to be losing an internal battle not to raise her voice.

“It’s just interesting how two months is now spousal abuse but when the kids were young and I asked whether--”

“This isn’t about sex, Ron, that was just one example!” Evidently too wound up to sit next to him on the bed, she stood in front of him. “The point is, I’m worried about you! I’m really, honestly worried, and I’m not sure you grasp how serious this is.”

"Don’t worry about me,” said Ron automatically. His pajama shorts were loose, and he concentrated on tightening the drawstrings.

“Oh, cheers, that’s sorted then,” snapped Hermione. “I’ll just happily watch you mope about the house and...and waste away into nothingness, shall I?”

“That healer told me to lose at least a stone and that’s what I’ve done!” 

“And you followed his diet and exercise plan to get there, hmm?”

The shorts weren’t going to be cinched into any kind of submission. Ron folded the waistband over. “Well, if the results are the same, that’s still good, isn’t it?”

Hermione lifted his chin to meet her gaze. “Ron, are you telling me that you honestly feel good right now?”

“No,” said Ron weakly. “I told you, the kids…”

“They’ve both been going every year for a few years now, though, is the thing.” Hermione looked at him searchingly. 

“Well, fine, it’s that, but also, you know, Harry and Ginny, and Dad’s health…”

“I don’t know, Ron,” said Hermione. “I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“By all means, then, if you know what’s wrong with me, I’d love to hear it.”

“Nothing is _ wrong _ with you.” Hermione punctured the ends of her vowels with more force than was necessary, but there wasn’t any malice in it. “You’re depressed, that’s all!”

Ron understood the concept of depression, but not as it applied here. It seemed like too small a word for the dark thoughts that raced around his brain, eating him from the inside. “I haven’t been crying much,” he said, stupidly.

The tenderness in Hermione’s gaze made Ron feel worse. “I didn’t say you had been.” 

She seemed to be waiting for Ron to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t get him put under observation in St. Mungo’s. What if he had to stay in the hospital for months before they found an answer? What if Hermione had to cut back hours at the ministry to visit him at his sickbed and she grew resentful, and left him? What if he turned out to be the problem, and there wasn’t any way to fix it? 

He laced his hands around Hermione, drawing her closer, then said, “I do feel...off. Everything is just dull. It’s a bit...I don’t know, I keep waiting for something to happen and wondering why it doesn’t, and then wondering if I’d even care if it did. I just need…” he trailed off. Maybe Hermione would have the answer, even if he was only telling her half the truth.

“Perspective?” she asked.

“What, visit some sick children, the elderly, that sort of thing?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

“Well, what about jogging? Remember when you took that up?”

“Yeah, and stopped, you’ll recall, after that thing with my knee.”

Hermione hesitated. “Well...with the ordinance, and the kids out of the house till the holidays…”

Ron felt himself genuinely smiling. “Granger! You’re the minister for magic!”

“And I signed the ordinance, didn’t I? What kind of hypocrite would I be if I was against my own policy?” 

“The worst kind,” Ron said into her ear. “A filthy one.” 

Hermione pushed into his shoulders gently so she was straddling him on the bed. “Ron! There are new rules, remember, it’s not like when we were kids--”

“I love rules,” said Ron. His mouth found the spot where her collarbone met her neck. “Speaking of, Minister, I think the seventy days maximum is a good new rule--”

“Sod off,” said Hermione. “Let’s get you out of these fucking shorts.”

*

The basement was where Ron mixed cannaburst strains. The past few weeks he’d devoted hours to it, and the image of his father tinkering with found muggle objects in the garage came to mind more than once. He’d never before appreciated or understood Arthur’s hobbies until he found himself with the patience and time on his hands to become a tinkering man, himself. 

He discovered spells that de-aged the plants, because a younger cannaburst leaf was more easily commingled with another. The right combination of silver and copper plant could quell anxiety without making his mouth dry, or relax him without making him comatose (or, if he did want to sleep, he had a strain for that too). He wasn’t sure what to call these new hybrids. In the basement lighting, they looked Gryffindor gold.

He felt lighter, with purpose. He bounded down the basement stairs with energy that had been dormant for years.

There was still the problem of the smoke. He didn’t like the way it clung to his clothing or hair--the lingering smell of illicit substance use made him feel like a criminal, especially at his age. He’d tried spells to evaporate the odor, but that only muted the actual effects of the cannaburst. He took to showering several times a day or night, cleaning his teeth so frequently he spat blood in the sink. Hermione said she minded this more than she would the smell, but Ron figured it was only a matter of time before it got to her.

There had to be another way. 

Eventually, the deluminator showed him one. He still had a habit of fiddling with it, although Hermione had insisted on disabling the magic so he didn’t accidentally put out the lights on the whole block.

He’d already been making oils. He’d gotten this idea from the muggles across town, whom he believed had lost their minds one morning until Hermione explained about vaping. Through trial and error, he’d found a version of _ Reducto _that ground the plant into a fine powder without reducing it completely to dust. From this, he would make his oil. 

He’d excitedly proclaimed this to Hermione one morning while he cracked eggs and let the toast brown in the pan. “_ Oil _, Hermione. The muggles know how to smoke it, I’m going to make it so wizards can do the same!”

She gave him a crooked smile over her _ Daily Prophet _. “When did you find time for a N.E.W.T. course in Herbology, darling?”

“I found _ Advanced Magical Herbs and Fungi _,” Ron said smugly. “In your N.E.W.T. exam preparedness kit, which, by the way, was still in that box in the basement. You’re welcome for clearing it out.”

“Lucky I saved it, then,” said Hermione, who steadfastly refused to admit her tendency to hoard. She floated the toast and eggs over to the breakfast table and frowned. “What, no bacon?”

“You said we’re off cured meats!”

“I thought maybe you’d have gotten the turkey bacon... What are you going to do for a solvent?”

“I’ll add it to the shopping list, you lunatic. What’s a solvent?” Ron had only just cracked open the book, and it didn’t exactly make for light reading.

“A solvent is a liquid used to dissolve the plant matter, unless you want to try snorting cannaburst powder like a criminal. Check the cleaning supplies, I bet something alcohol-based will work. If you heat the solvent, it will probably speed up the reaction time.”

“Sexy.”

“Hardly.”

“I meant you, when you talk like that. Also, you can’t snort cannaburst.”

And so, Ron had his oil. He was thinking of trying to cook with it when he spotted the deluminator on the table. The deluminator could put out and restore all lights, without real fire or smoke. Which meant it probably used some kind of lighter fluid. Which, when he thought about it, might not look so different from oil. 

“Sorry, Dumbledore,” Ron muttered. He snatched up the deluminator and unscrewed the bottom end. And, sure enough…. 

“It’s fucking oil!” He immediately vanished the lighter fluid away with his wand, and replaced it with the custom strain of cannaburst. “_Lumos accensum."_

The deluminator glowed copper, then green.

“Bloody fucking hell,” said Ron. He put his lips to the tip of it and inhaled. He felt a kind of vapor fill his mouth and he let it into his lungs before exhaling. The vapor lingered a bit before it vanished. His body relaxed the way it always did when he smoked.

Ron ran upstairs to the living room. He tried it again. It was the same. He walked through where the vapor had risen, sniffing the air. Nothing. 

“_Accensum Nox,_” he said, putting the deluminator into the pocket of his pajama bottoms.

He’d done it. 

Somehow Ron didn’t think this would be Dumbledore’s preferred use for the deluminator, but he’d given it to Ron, hadn’t he? And this didn’t have to be the final product. It was the test run. He could make prototypes, devices that were made special for his cannaburst oil. He could take an ad out in the Prophet, maybe anonymously at first, see what the interest was like. Maybe register at the Ministry for a patent?

Ron was pacing excitedly around the living room when Harry’s head appeared in his fireplace. He stopped immediately, whirling around.

“Right, if You-Know-Who is reincarnated again I am going to _ Crucio _ my balls off.”

“It’s Ginny and me,” Harry said, stepping through the flames and depositing himself unceremoniously onto the couch. He looked fine, but his eyes were puffy. He cried far more often in front of Ron now that he’d begun seeing a litany of St. Mungo’s counselors and neurowizards. Ron didn’t mind the new emotionally forthright Harry, but it was an adjustment. Especially as he’d grown up with five brothers and a stoic sister.

Harry had barely mentioned Ginny in recent months, given their frequent rows, and Hermione’s insistence that Ron not take sides. Very occasionally Harry mentioned a strategy their marriage counselor suggested and Ron would attempt to invoke it in his own marriage, sometimes to Hermione’s chagrin.

For example, the counselor once said that maybe Harry and Ginny’s problem was that they didn’t make time to miss each other. Ron sometimes felt like missing Hermione was all he did during the day, and worried she had the opposite problem. Thus, he started keeping later hours while Hermione pretended to be asleep upstairs. 

Ron summoned three generous measures of firewhiskey, knowing Hermione would find an excuse to join them any minute. “You’re done for good then.” He didn’t bother to hide the relief in his voice.

“Yeah, you seem absolutely gutted to hear it,” said Harry, standing to accept his drink and lightly thumping Ron on the back of the head with his free hand.

“Look, you know I love you both, but I think it’s fair to say this has been absolutely--”

“Ron!” said Hermione, who had appeared on the bottom of the staircase in her dressing gown. “Honestly, love, I am serious about a sleeping draught. You won’t even know until you’re out.”

“It’s fine,” said Harry, grinning. “I don’t pay Ron an obscene amount of galleons a week for his famed sensitivity. That’s what my counselors are for.”

“Plus, the blowjobs don’t come cheap.” said Ron. “What, Hermione? He could use a laugh!”

Hermione rubbed her face. “I’m sure he’ll have one when he hears something funny. Harry, I’m so sorry, I was just barely nodding off--_don’t roll your eyes at me, Ron--_and I heard you pop into the fireplace. I mean, I heard...well, I am sorry.”

Harry went to accept one of her suffocating hugs. “I would have told Ron to wake you anyway. I think people are going to find out as soon as tomorrow, you know what the Ministry is like.”

“But is it so bad as...I mean, do you need to move that quickly?” Hermione asked, wringing her hands.

Harry sighed. “It isn’t up to us, is the problem. The sooner we make a joint statement, the better. Either that or the papers speculate about one of us having a love child.” Ron’s stomach lurched as he thought of Albus, who had just recently repaired his relationship with Harry, and how might take this news, or the somewhat acerbic Lily, who had always been his favorite. He was worried about how to tell his own children, for that matter. 

“But Harry, oh, I just can’t imagine how you feel right now, I can’t. I mean, when did this happen? Does she know you’re here right now?” Hermione was beginning to pace in front of the fireplace, and Ron gently steered her into a seat on the couch beside him. He motioned for Harry to do the same in the adjacent armchair.

“I wanted the both of you to hear it from me,” Harry said into his whiskey. “Ginny agreed, actually. She knows one of you would just tell the other straight away. Must be nice, to still communicate with your spouse,” he added, with uncharacteristic bitterness. 

“Mate….” 

“Sorry, I know, she’s your sister.”

“That’s not what I meant!” said Ron, putting his free arm around Hermione. He knew, without having to look over, that she was crying quietly. “I meant that’s shit for you. For both of you.”

“Still, Ron. It’s our families, I’m not dragging you into all that.”

“You’ve dragged us into enough, I’d say we’d have chucked you long ago if it was a problem,” said Ron, shifting slightly so his hand was stroking Hermione’s hair. She leaned heavily into his shoulder.

Almost immediately, Hermione sprang back up and Ron guiltily extracted his hand. 

Harry made an impatient noise. “Relax. If I wanted to be around other failed marriages I’d have gone to the Hog’s Head with Teddy and his lads for ‘bants and brews.’” 

“But, Harry, if you need us to be--”

“Hermione, it will not make me any happier to watch you pretend you’re unhappy.”

“Who says we’re happy?” said Hermione, putting her hand back on Ron’s knee and giving it a squeeze.

“I’m miserable,” said Ron, cheerfully, “now the kids are gone. We’re just lucky, mate.”

“And we work at it,” Hermione lied. This was something she’d taken to saying whenever any of their Ministry friends asked about how they stayed married, with what people apparently felt were staggering odds against them. 

The truth was, they didn’t work at it. Ron wasn’t known for his abiding love of work in general, and Hermione certainly had her hands full, so why should marriage be work? A life without Hermione appealed to Ron about as much as a life without any of his limbs. After having children, fights started and ended themselves. It was like speaking a unique two-person language.

“You don’t work at shit,” Harry countered. “Look, I know I’m full up with trauma and should have been seeing someone since birth, but the kind of _ work _ we were doing in couples’ sessions helped fuck all. It just made us aware of how poorly suited we are to each other.”

Ron wasn’t sure if there was a woman on the planet Harry was suited to, even though he wanted nothing more for Harry. He’d been a child, to think Harry and Ginny would fit together the same way he and Hermione did. It was the kind of thing that might have been true for his mum’s generation, when fewer people married muggles or pursued secondary education or left the Ministry to work abroad. Their world was too big and scattered now. 

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione, tears pricking her eyes again. “Surely there is still love there. For your children’s sake.” And ours, Ron added silently. He wasn’t eager to play keep away or peacemaker next Christmas.

“Of course there is,” said Harry warily. Ron had never seen his forehead so heavily lined. “She said to send you both hers, actually. I think we only rowed so badly earlier because we’ve been worried about the gossip rags. Gin’s been helping me pack. She thinks if I do it myself I won’t remember everything I need.” 

Hermione hiccuped loudly. Even Ron had to blink furiously a few times. The image of his sister sorting through hers and Harry’s belongings, making sure he had enough to start on his own, was painful.

“Good on you both,” said Ron, meaning it. “Hermione would probably burn all my underwear if given the chance.”

“Only the bloody gray ones,” said Hermione, from somewhere in the folds of Ron’s pajama shirt, which she’d apparently chosen for a tissue. “Look, Harry, it’s complicated, I’m sure. You don’t have to say it isn’t for our sakes.”

Harry shook his head. “That’s just it, Hermione. I’m not so sure it is. She’s the mother of my children. I’ll always love her, but we have no reason to stay married. We just hung on too long, you know? We’re awfully old to start again.”

“Will you both stop saying we’re old!” snapped Hermione. “I turn fifty before any of us and I’ve still got plenty of years before, thanks.”

Ron caught Harry’s eye and winked. For a brief moment, time hadn’t made mincemeat of them yet. Ron wished he could bottle the feeling, or figure out its name. Instead, he said, “If it’s a matter of getting back on the horse, I think--”

“Ron! Have you ever, just once, paused to think before you speak?”

“Old dogs can’t learn new tricks, as the muggles say,” said Ron. He had thought about it, as a matter of fact, but the conclusion he came to was that Harry would have found a tactful Ron weird. Also, whiskey hit him differently now. 

“The thing is,” said Harry, picking up his glasses and beginning to polish them, so that he mercifully avoided making eye contact, “we haven’t actually, ah, been intimate, in several years. I didn’t realize how unusual...well, enough said.”

There was a silence during which Ron opened his mouth and Hermione dug her nails into his kneecap. They seemed to all strike a tacit agreement that everyone drain their glass. Ron’s ears burned as he recalled complaining to Harry about what he thought was an age-related issue but had turned out to be the other thing. 

“You never know,” Hermione said carefully, “what’s going on inside anyone’s marriage. There are just some things you share only with your spouse. Even for the three of us, I think.” 

Ron nodded manically, though Harry knew perfectly well how often he and Hermione had sex. He probably thought them a pair of nymphomaniacs.

“Actually,” said Harry, looking between them, “Ginny said I had to stop comparing us. The counselor said so too, said I brought you two up far too often, but it’s only because...well, I am jealous. She was right about that. I just didn’t realize because I was so bloody happy for you.” 

“Well, two things can be true at the same time,” said Hermione, waving her wand to refill Harry’s glass. “I wish you had talked to us about the jealousy.”

“Yeah,” said Ron seriously. “I’m told it’s a really unhealthy emotion. Wouldn’t know, of course.” Harry laughed, and Hermione dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. 

The feeling Ron couldn’t name was, of course, nostalgia.

***

Draco read about the divorce in the _ Prophet _, and allowed himself a small smile. It wasn’t that he’d been actively rooting for more trouble where Harry Potter was concerned. Their sons’ brushes with death were as fresh in his mind as he imagined they were in Potter’s.

He liked Albus. Why hold a son responsible for sins of the father? He couldn’t even muster any particular ill-will towards Harry these days. His smile was merely that of a man who hoped his misery would one day find company, and was delighted to find that it had.

_Marriage Between Auror Harry Potter and _ Prophet _ Sports Editor Ginevra Wealsey To End Amicably _

_ By Ginny Potter _

Harry Potter, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, known for his defeat of dark wizard Lord Voldemort at the 1998 Battle of Hogwarts, together with his wife, _ Daily Prophet _ Sports Editor Ginevra Potter, regret to announce their separation after eighteen years of marriage. The decision is mutual, and both parties will file for separation later this month. 

“Ginny is my family and partner in this life, and will remain so,” says Potter. “We are privileged to have the support of our family and friends, and will continue to co-parent our three beloved children. For their sakes, we ask that you respect our privacy.”

This editor is proud to continue going by the Potter name, as she has nothing but respect for the father of her children and the most extraordinary man she knows. 

The Potters remain a loving and committed family unit. 

Malfoy Manor was a house with old bones. In the glory days, portraits lining the entryway and gilded chandeliers reminded visitors of the Malfoys’ social standing. Draco had to dodge several hexes and curses while finally getting the last portrait down, and the stench of death still lingered in the walls. Even after Voldemort fell, the Manor had seen the deaths of Astoria, then Narcissa, and finally, Lucius. Grief rippled through him and made him a little softer, each time. 

What primarily disappointed Draco about his life in forties was the lack of a _ scene _. 

He’d cut a lot of ties in his early adulthood. Some were severed naturally, with old families who’d made their allegiances clear. Sometimes it was for Astoria’s sake. On their seventh date, with her usual primness, she’d folded her napkin in her lap across the dinner table and said, “Gregory Goyle is an abomination of a man. It’s him or me.” Both the Greengrasses and the Malfoys were among a half-dozen or so families that made a point of being extremely cooperative with the new ministry order, and their sons and daughters married each other.

Astoria had kept up their social calendar--a cliche almost as terrible as the fact that the majority of their friendships faded away when she got sicker, and people stopped visiting. Daphne was the only one who helped Draco, in the end.

There was no reason for a man of Draco’s age, and frankly, reputation, to subject himself to the humiliation of picking someone up in a bar. The risk that someone would know who he was was simply too great, and besides, he didn’t want to have sex with just anyone. He wanted his wife back. 

Nobody goes around bringing back the dead. That was medieval shit, even for a Malfoy. But there were spells that worked better than a memory, better than a Penesive, almost like the real thing. At night, alone in his bed, he could conjure Astoria’s soft form moving above him, her hair brushing against his chest. 

It wasn’t the same but he made it work. 

What he couldn’t make work was the lack of company. When he was a child, his father told him the house could breathe, and now it was holding its breath for him. The Manor seemed to age alongside him. It was as if, the smaller his world grew, the more hollow and empty the Manor became.

He wondered if Harry Potter got lonely like this. If he didn’t yet, it was only a matter of time, assuming he didn’t already have some secret girlfriend twenty years his junior waiting in the wings.

_No, he’s better than that _ , Draco thought, thumbing the cheery Potter-Weasley wedding photo enclosed in the article. _ He thinks he’s better than that, at any rate. _He’d been a newlywed himself when he saw the original, and the wedding announcement that accompanied it, and he’d sucked in his cheek at the look in Harry’s eyes. He looked more terrified than happy. But then, was that just what Draco wanted to see?

It wasn’t like Potter to quit. In spite of himself, Draco found himself curious about what had happened, what had come between them. Whatever it was, it had to be something ignoble, something Harry Potter couldn’t sully himself with. 

Or maybe it was the kids after all. Potter’s poor parenting could have been the last straw. Women were like that about their children. Draco was like that, about his own son.

Maybe, if Harry had grown up in a normal family, as a regular, non-famous wizard, he’d have been a better father. Maybe being a husband was the same. 

Draco missed having a nemesis. Parting on cordial, if not exactly friendly terms, with Potter, made his speculative brooding all the more unbecoming.

The price of fame, his mother had warned him, was the right to a private life taken away from you. Draco had always thought she was saying this to make him feel better, but perhaps she had been right.

Now Draco was a famous orphan too. Assuming his infamy and general status as a social pariah was anything like fame. Potter would probably say yes, but really, who knew?

He’d been mistaken about a lot of things where Harry Potter was concerned, chief among them that Draco’s own obsession would fade with time. 

“I wish you’d just fucked each other at Hogwarts and gotten it over with,” Astoria had said one night, sounding bored. 

“But...I hate him!” Spoken aloud, this was more pitiful than Draco had intended. It was the kind of thing a virgin who did not understand the specific machinations of desire would say.

It was the kind of thing Harry Potter would say. 

The only bright spot was that twenty-year old Draco Malfoy learned this disturbing truth within the confines of a happy marriage, knowing that Potter was too repressed, too binary, and too bloody stubborn to ever _ name _the thing, and would likely die that way. Or so Draco had assumed. 

Was it because Astoria was dead? Was it as simple as the fact that he’d wanted to be inside Harry Potter for so long, the only thing that quelled this desire was the more wholesome desire to be inside the woman he loved, and her death had re-awakened the part of himself he’d buried? (Not literally. The army of men and women who’d marched in and out of the bed he shared with Astoria had satisfied him on some level.)

A midlife crisis was not outside the realm of possibility. It pained Draco to admit this: not aging itself, which he welcomed; he was practically marking the days until a natural, non-tragic death on his calendar, but the crisis part. Malfoys might be brooders, but they were not crisis actors. 

Well, if he was having a midlife crisis, he could at least do with a haircut. He’d taken to wearing his hair long after Astoria got sick, at her request. She wanted something to braid. And he’d looked more like his father with a ponytail. At Lucius’ funeral, the few mourners seemed appropriately playcated that his legacy would live on.

Fuck that. Draco could love the memories of his father and wife without having to wear his hair in a way he never particularly cared for. He would be his own man, and he would embrace current fashion, instead of the old money stateliness his father had always favored. 

He’d asked, once, about long hair being for girls.

“Only weak men are afraid to let their hair grow, Draco.”

Draco was nothing if not weak, so he took out his wand and sliced to the nape of his neck at the breakfast table. Holding the hair in his hands, he felt twenty years younger. 

Definitely a midlife crisis, then.

He summoned his hand mirror from the washroom and used his wand to clean up the edges and add some texture to the sides and front. He certainly did not look twenty years younger, but he looked all right, better than he had. Less like his father’s dejected ghost. It was a shame, to still be relatively handsome and have no paramour to show for it.

He wondered if the next phase, after the haircut, would be topping some young, irritating, bespeckled twink. He had no idea where to locate discreet partners, and had a feeling a mainstream newspaper wasn’t going to help him there. His wife had always taken care of that.

His wife had also said (before Scorpius) that the only thing better than sex was drugs, and Draco was relieved to see that at least, here, the _ Prophet _ had him covered. 

_ DISCREET CANNABURST SALES FOR WIZARDS AND WITCHES IN NEED _. Can’t sleep? Job stress effecting your home life? Love cannaburst but don’t love smelling of it? Take advantage of the new ministry ordinance LEGALIZING CANNABURST FOR WITCHES AND WIZARDS OF AGE by purchasing discreet CANNABURST OIL. One hundred percent effective!! Free samples before you buy! Send your OWL to address below for pricing and other information. You will be AMAZED at the REAL RESULTS!!!!

While the literacy levels of whomever took out the ad might be questionable, Draco saw no reason to believe cannaburst oil wasn’t possible. He knew muggles puffed away at bizarre contraptions that left no smell in the air, because the muggle-born students smuggled them into Hogwarts and Scorpius told his father everything. It was only a matter of time before the wizarding world copied the muggle one on this front, as with everything else.

At his age, Draco couldn’t fathom smoking anymore, but this was probably worth a try before he resorted to hiring a male escort, so he sent the owl. 

It was a dreary English morning, but a few rays of sunlight found their way through the Manor windows just before the clouds rolled in.


	2. I'm a Prizefighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was funny, what he got himself into, as the only member of his immediate circle without a proper job."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @ballerinaroy for your incredible assists with this chapter.
> 
> In Part 1 I originally said Ron and Hermione were married for 23 years, but changed it to 21 years because everyone in the Wizarding World has kids at like, age 12.
> 
> Embarrassing health PSA: This fic seems pro-vaping but I’m cognizant of the current news about vaping related illnesses and death, and I’m as alarmed as anyone. I encourage all vapers to switch to another method of weed consumption until the CDC/etc figures out what’s going on--I did! I’m choosing to believe that in Wizarding Great Britain in 2023, they’ve solved these problems.
> 
> I thought of Ruthie as either a niece or alternate identity for Rita, whichever is funnier/more awful to you! 
> 
> Finally, George comes off weird here, but he has some good reasons, again, no villains except our own demons. In this universe, Ron left the shop shortly after the events of the Cursed Child.

II. 

_Perfect Potter an Absentee Father and Deadbeat Dad? Inside the Marriage (and Life) That Went So Wrong _

_ By Ruthie Skeeter _

Harry Potter, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, widely considered a hero for his defeat of Lord Voldemort at the 1998 Battle of Hogwarts, recently shocked the Wizarding World with his recent divorce announcement, which Ginny Potter delivered as a _ Prophet _exclusive. 

Given the _ Prophet’ _ s close ties to the Ministry (which employs much of Harry Potter’s inner circle), many witches and wizards are wondering if the former Mrs. Potter’s article indicates a cover up for more troubling issues. The _ Quibbler _ was able to obtain an exclusive from a close friend of the Potters, who provided their insights under the condition of anonymity. 

“Harry didn’t grow up in a proper family, you know, not to be crass, but... Everything always came easy to him, I think he thought this would be more of the same, that the missus and kids would adore him like everybody else does.”

The source couldn’t say for certain whether infidelity was involved, but suspected--- 

Ron slammed the paper down with a closed fist. He could not stomach reading on. 

“_ Close _ friend? Close fucking _ friend _? That’ll be Dawson, I told Harry passing him up for Deputy Head would come back to bite him in the arse.” Dawson, a weedy, disheveled man about fifteen years their junior, had always reminded Ron of Peter Pettigrew, not least because he was an excellent bullshitter. He struck Ron as the sort of person who relished being an exclusive source for a snake reporter. 

Ron subscribed to the_ Quibbler _because he liked Luna. The tabloid had generally stopped printing anything of substance since the war, and Ron found he appreciated the bonkers annotations from Luna and Rolf’s latest discoveries. But Luna wasn’t the editor, and he’d heard from Ginny that lately the paper had been struggling to make ends meet.

He took a long pull from the deluminator. George cobbled together a starter box of devices (for a cut of the profits), so Ron sent buyers home with those, but he was still attached to his original. 

It was only upon picking a stray bit of resin off the paper that Ron noticed the byline.

“Skeeter’s made herself into a horcrux!” he said, standing up so suddenly he knocked his chair sideways, sending several stray cartridges to the floor. “Oh, shit. _ Accio _ Godric’s Glory.”

He’d forgotten about his two o’clock. 

“Heard you, be right there,” Ron called. The person at the other end made a strange sound, somewhere between a scream and a laugh. Ron felt around his back pocket for his wand. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a repeat of his second appointment, a few weeks ago, where several drunk neighborhood lads tried to steal their supply off him. Confounding people ruined his buzz.

He opened the door, and decided he’d rather go another ten rounds, blindfolded, with every violently pissed wizard in the neighborhood.

“What a horrible surprise,” said Draco Malfoy.

“Fuck me with a broken broomstick,” said Ron. “Hello, Malfoy.” 

“Weasley,” said Malfoy. He did not offer his hand, but Ron took it as a good sign that he didn’t take his wand out, either. It was broad daylight, he reminded himself. Broad daylight, and houses with innocent muggles only a few blocks away. 

“Nice haircut,” said Ron, wondering who it was that said that. “Oh. Shite. I mean, well, nice haircut, I suppose.”

“There’s that quintessential Weasley wit,” said Malfoy airily. “Thank you.”

They stood there, Ron gaping, Malfoy with his arms folded. He looked good, Ron had to admit, especially now that he’d ditched that stupid Lucius Jr. ponytail. Better than he or Harry looked, not that it was a competition. His face was too thin, but he had the restful glow of a rich person with afternoons free to purchase recreational drugs off a former adversary.

“Come in, then. I mean, if you want.” Ron retreated back inside, leaving about a half meter of space in the open door for Malfoy to step through. No need to roll out the welcome mat, as Hermione would say. (_ Don’t think about what Hermione would say right now.) _

“Been a few years,” Malfoy remarked. “I was wondering what you’d been doing with yourself, with the children at school.” He was surveying the room, and his eyes flickered immediately to the package of crisps and half-drunk tea mugs on Ron’s work table.

“I’m touched you’ve been wondering about me,” said Ron, stifling a pretend yawn. “What is it you want?”

“Haven’t we been corresponding by owl?” There was a flash of something in Draco’s eyes, desperation, maybe. Ron didn’t like it, because he recognized himself in it. He looked away.

“Yeah, no, I know. I mean, er, what do you want, you know, to try?”

“No idea,” said Malfoy. “I’ve never done this before.”

Ron let a juvenile joke die in the back of his throat, clearing it loudly instead. He didn’t know what game Malfoy was playing. “I mean, I think...I offered to show you...so you could pick a strain…”

“Right,” said Malfoy. “Listen, this is awkward. You don’t have to show me anything. I’ll have, I don’t know, twice the usual amount people buy, and we’ll figure out a way to never have to do this again.”

Ron shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, letting his socks scrape against the unfinished basement floor. He ran a hair through his hair, wondering how it was that Malfoy wasn’t even close to balding while his grew depressingly thin and dull. “But you’ve never done this before,” he repeated, stupidly.

“So I said, Ron,” said Malfoy. His first name sounded funny, coming out of Malfoy’s mouth, his accent even posher than Hermione’s. Well, fine. Two could play at that.

“Alright then, _ Draco _, if you don’t mind, I think you should test a few options now, or else you might...well, what I’m selling is probably different than what you’re used to. If you’re used to it. Are you?”

“Not since Scorpius, but before that Astoria and I partook, the usual way.”

“Great, Draco,” said Ron, brightly. He began rummaging around inside the boxes on the floor, chucking about seven cartridges from one box and six from another onto the table behind him. “That’s good, then, Draco, although, not being funny, they’ve changed since we were younger, I recommend you start slow. I mean, I recommend everyone start slow, not just you in particular. Draco.”

“Surely no better way to spend the afternoon,” said Draco, ignoring Ron’s frenetic energy.

Ron ripped open what he thought was the box of George’s vapor devices, but turned out to be Hugo’s baby clothes. He swore he’d gotten rid of that one. “Fuck. Okay, have a seat. In the...in the armchair, I guess. It’s where people usually sit.”

“Are you going to stop bandying about, if I do?”

“What do you care?” Ron asked irritably, finding at last George’s box, which, he’d forgotten, was labeled: RONALD WEASLEY’S EXTRA LARGE ADULT DIAPERS. He tried vanishing the label, forgetting George made his labels non-vanishable. 

“It makes me nervous.” Ron looked up sharply. Draco didn’t seem to be taking the piss. He wasn’t looking at the box. He seemed, well, nervous, hands stuffed in his pockets, chewing on his bottom lip. His hands shook a little, at his sides. 

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Draco. Ron wondered if he was under the Imperius curse. Or maybe Draco had placed him under the Imperius curse, somehow, behind his back. “It’s just that Scorpius is like that, when he’s wound up, and you how you feel what they.....fatherhood.”

Ron did, in fact, know. His ears were burning. “Malfoy—Draco—Malfoy. Right, we’re big boys now. My godson almost killed your son, little shit that he is.” He smiled fondly. “I assume you have better things to do than ambush me in my home. I will demonstrate how to use the vaporizer. You can have whatever products you want, and I will not take your money, on principal. I don’t need it, and I sure as hell don’t want it. Also, wand on the table.”

“Thank God,” said Draco. His wand floated over to the table, taking its time, while he left his hands raised. “I was beginning to fear you were someone else, under Polyjuice.”

Ron’s upper lip twitched. “I thought maybe Imperius.”

“Too messy,” said Draco. “There are better spells...well, I’m sure your family can speak to those as well.” 

“Not really,” Ron lied. “Er...yes.” 

Draco nodded approvingly. He chewed his lip again, looking pensive. “Would you prefer I not call you Ron? Only...I’m not really sure, anymore. What to do.”

“Nobody is,” said Ron. “That’s the thing. The older you get, the more you realize how little you know. And then, with any luck, you die.”

“Exactly,” said Draco. He raised his eyebrows. “You know, Weasel, you’re a lot smarter than you get credit for. It’s just that--”

“That my wife is a genius and the leader of the free wizarding world, which my famous best friend saved half a dozen times. Yeah.” Ron sucked in a breath. Why, in the name of Godrick’s wrinkled old sack, was he having this conversation with Draco Malfoy? (_ Because he started it. _)

Draco’s expression was one Ron could not read. “Twice, you mean. The first time doesn’t count; he was a baby. And the more recent incident was what, half his fault?”

Ron opened his mouth reflexively and Draco waved at the air. “I’m not insulting him, please. I’d be a fucking idiot to do so. I’m being precise.”

“Precise,” Ron repeated.

“Yes, precise. Your wife is not the leader of the _ entire _ wizarding world, either. What are you, American?” 

Ron didn’t know how long he’d been standing in front of Draco, blinking. He crossed to the table, nearly tripping over the Christmas decorations on the way, and started on Draco’s samples. He refused to look over towards the armchair at all and busied himself by making a show of loading his latest hybrid into a vaporizer. It was funny, what he got himself into, as the only member of his immediate circle without a proper job.

He decided to let the silence land, something he was generally not adept at doing.

“Genius, though!” said Draco. “She is, I mean.” He was looking at Ron’s pocket, where his wand was sticking out. It occurred to Ron that Malfoy might be afraid to say Hermione’s name. Ron didn’t blame him.

“I’m the only person you can get drugs off, I suppose,” said Ron, deciding to simply sit down across from Draco. “_ Lumos Accensum. _” He took a hit and turned the vaporizer over in his hand. 

“This whole method is…different. Did you invent it?” Draco’s jaw was set in a sort of benign grimace. He sat at the edge of the plush armchair like he could scurry away at any minute. He was certainly jittery, these days. 

“Yeah,” said Ron. “I got sick of the smell.” He extended the vaporizer towards Draco, whose hand was free of freckles or protruding veins, the bastard. “Hit this.”

Draco took it, closing his eyes in visible relief while he exhaled. They passed the device back and forth again. Ron waited for unpleasant, perhaps long-buried memories to bubble up, but was instead fixated on the utter bizarreness of the present moment. Perhaps it was the same for Draco, who said, “I must owe you something. This is too weird otherwise.”

Ron nodded. “Fair enough.” He thought for a moment. Godric’s Glory was a bit of a couch melter, he figured they were both paranoid enough, but now his brain was working on a delay. “Where do you get your haircut?”

“I cut it myself, actually.” 

Ron sighed and stood to swap out cartridges. “I’m going bald, anyway, don’t know what I was thinking.” May as well try the sativa, now that he was reasonably sure this wouldn’t end in a duel.

“You aren’t going bald,” said Draco. “I can see the back of your head. It’s the way you’re wearing it—what on earth compelled you to go for that comb over? You’re not a pensioner.” 

“It is, it’s thinning, I can feel it.” 

“Mine too,” said Draco. “But if you take a little more off the sides and let a good bit of it lie over on the top, instead of...whatever that is, no one would notice. Tell your stylist, next time.” 

“My stylist?” Ron snapped. “I don’t have a stylist, do I?” 

Draco pursed his lips. He seemed to be trying not to smile. “Well, I could do it.” 

Ron passed Draco the swapped out vaporizer, narrowing his eyes. “I know we’ve both experienced a lot of personal growth here, so far, but you coming at me with a pair of scissors might be my limit.” 

“Not scissors, my wand,” said Draco. “At this point I’m obligated to help, really. There’s no shame in a man taking pride in his appearance.” 

“Obligated?!”

“Weasley, I can't fathom why it is that every time I see the three of you out I appear to be looking at the cast off models from a _ Thrifty Finds for the Mature Witch _ catalog, but you must know there are other choices.” 

Ron took the vaporizer back from Draco, taking a larger hit than was strictly necessary. “I didn’t ask for a makeover. Just a haircut.” 

Draco actually clapped his hands together. “You won’t regret it, Ron. You have—”

“Your word?” Ron supplied, amused. “You’re not too high, are you? I don’t want to come out looking like...you know, like my former enemy cut my hair while we were stoned in my basement.” 

Draco’s arm shot out to catch his wand. “This is medicinal, I’ll have you know.” 

“Anxiety,” said Ron. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the obvious answer. “If you don’t cock up my hair, I’ll throw in something I made for a client whose son was off to Hogwarts for the first time. Small batch.” 

Draco moved closer, so that he was standing behind where Ron sat. “Now it’s my turn to be touched.” 

“We’ve all got it,” said Ron, with a shrug. “Harry…” He’d been waiting on Harry, hoping he could present him with the perfect thing for his nightmares. He was close, but not there yet. 

“Don’t tell me this is all for Potter,” said Draco. Close up he had dark undereye circles but few wrinkles. “Have you got, erm, a hand mirror? And a hairbrush?” 

“No, this is for me,” said Ron. “_Accio _wee mirror and comb. I didn’t used to know what a hand mirror was,” he added, defensively.

“Heterosexuality is a scourge,” said Draco.

This was information that Ron was not surprised by, but he wasn’t un-surprised, either. Ron understood being gay (Charlie had come out after the war, and Hermione had sobbed her way through Seamus and Dean’s wedding ten years ago), or straight, but he wasn’t quite sure what happened in between. Rose had told him and Hermione, over last Christmas, that she had a boyfriend and a girlfriend, and that she did not believe in monogamy. They’d assumed it was her way of rebelling, that she’d grow out of it and pick one, eventually. Perhaps that was not a correct assumption. Here was Draco Malfoy, referring to his own sexual fluidity like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Ron realized he hadn’t responded. “Not that you have anything to worry about,” Draco said quickly. “Chin down.” He handed Ron the mirror, and Ron held it awkwardly in his hand, watching Draco comb his hair out.

“Yeah, I’d worked that out when you said I dressed like my Auntie Muriel,” said Ron. “I’ve been married over twenty years, I just live vicariously through my kids.”

“You’re happy, though,” said Draco. His wand was hacking away at the sides. Officially too late to stop. Ron supposed he could always just shave it all off, if it went badly.

“Er, what? Oh, in my marriage, you mean. Yeah,” said Ron. “I don’t know why that surprises people.”

“No, I’m not surprised,” said Draco. “Everyone always knew...some of us get lucky, right? I was lucky. Until I wasn’t.”

Because it was the thing to do, Ron said, “I’m sorry, Draco. I can’t imagine. I suppose that’s what everyone says.”

“You would be surprised.” Ron wondered if suddenly having to feel sorry for a Malfoy was him getting a life lesson. He let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. 

Ron wasn’t used to being in close proximity to another man, apart from Harry, who didn’t count. He wasn’t comfortable with Malfoy so close, but he didn’t want to adjust his seat, for fear of Malfoy thinking he was a homophobe or something. (A Ron Weasley who didn’t want to offend Draco Malfoy was an unexpected version of himself, but this was an unexpected situation.)

“People say the wrong thing a lot. I should know, I’m forever doing it,” said Ron.

“If you say so,” said Draco. It was disarming, his refusal to go along with Ron’s self-deprecation. Nobody took Ron at face value. “You ought to wear more blue.” He’d finished on the sides, and was starting to work the top of Ron’s head over with a comb, teasing it over, then up.

“Eh?”

“If I go through all the trouble of giving you this haircut, and you put your old rubbish clothes back on, nobody will even notice and this will have been for nothing. Blue. Grey, even. I just can’t abide the brown.”

“Ah, well, as long as _ you _ can’t abide it, there’s reason enough for me.”

“You’ve lost, what, a stone, a stone and a half?” Draco went on, like Ron hadn’t spoken. “There’s your excuse to buy new clothes. Here, have a look.”

Ron had forgotten he was supposed to be monitoring the mirror. The face that looked back at him now didn’t recognize itself, it was so well-suited to the new look. It was actually a brilliant haircut. 

*

“You having an affair, mate?” Harry asked Ron, the following week. “No pressure, but I think I really would kill myself, if it came to that.” 

Harry brushed the soot off his shoulders. (He was always inexplicably dirty after traveling by Floo, but the Ministry was funny about apparating from their grounds.) He was wearing a new leather jacket, Ron couldn’t help noticing. The hypocrite.

“Yeah, Fleur’s finally come to her senses and left Bill,” said Ron. He took Harry’s jacket and hung it on the living room coat rack. “It’ll be tough to break the news to the families, but the attraction we have is animalistic.”

Harry looked Ron up and down. “Well, the hair…new jumper...I have to wonder. Who’s it for?”

“Myself,” said Ron smugly, opening the door to the basement stairs. Let the new poster boy for St. Mungo’s psychiatric services argue with that one.

“You’ve lost weight,” Harry called from behind Ron. “Seriously, Ron, what’s up?”

“Stop staring at my arse,” Ron said. He waited for Harry’s retort, but, strangely, there was none. “I dunno, I just got to thinking. We’re not that old! I mean, we’re old, obviously, but we aren’t about to pack it in anytime soon, are we?” It made him uneasy, lying to Harry. He almost never did.

Harry landed from the staircase with a polite thud. He’d likely jumped off the second to last step from the bottom. He had the agility of a child, because he still moved like one. “Christ, Ron. This is...what exactly is this, that I’m looking at?”

Ron hadn’t considered the basement from the perspective of someone else who’d spent a lot of time in it. After Draco’s surprise visit, he’d finally cleaned out the remaining miscellaneous boxes, and created a proper workstation, storing the vape devices (he’d ordered another box from George) under the table and the cartridges on the metal shelving alongside a couple reference books. The cannaburst leaves were now where the armchair used to be, in a kind of mini-greenhouse he’d gotten off Neville, who was such an enthusiastic client it was borderline frightening. He’d moved the frayed armchair and its twin to the other side of the room. 

“It’s a lot,” said Ron. He cleared his throat.

“That’s an understatement,” said Harry. Ron searched his face. He couldn’t tell what he was thinking, which was unusual. But then Harry smiled. “You know who’d be proud of you? Fred. This feels very...Freddish, doesn’t it?”

Ron floated over the RONALD WEASLEY’S EXTRA LARGE ADULT DIAPERS box so Harry could see, and lined it up midair beside its counterpart, RONALD WEASLEY ANTI-FUNGAL ANAL RELIEF CREAM. “Yeah. He was an inspiration. Clearly, George has been involved, as well.”

Harry laughed. “But, then, you’ve got to take this to the shop! It’s legal now, and George is game…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. Ron knew he’d forgotten about four years ago, as Ron never brought it up. Being told, without preamble, that you were a bloody nuisance wasn’t at the top of the list of cherished family memories. Certainly not something Ron wanted to dwell on. 

“We’ve worked it out,” Ron said smoothly. “He gets a cut.”

“Hermione---”

“No fucking clue, mate,” said Ron, grinning. “I’m going to be in a bit of trouble.” (Hermione almost never went into the basement, so as to maintain the fiction that she was an organized person.)

Harry whistled low. “I know you said she suggested you smoke it, and she was all right with your, I guess, experiments, but this whole business….”

“I know,” said Ron. “Listen, she will absolutely murder me, but failing that, she’ll just leave me, and you’ve recently made the bachelor life so appealing--”

Harry rolled his eyes. “She won’t. I mean, she’ll definitely murder you. But she won’t leave you. She’s not wired for it, God help her.” Harry and Ginny were the only people who seemed convinced Hermione would be anything other than fine without Ron. Maybe Rose as well, when she wasn’t rallying against the institution of marriage.

“Wonder if that’s the green-eyed-monster talking,” said Ron. He found his latest strain on the shelf, a hybrid he’d privately named after Harry but wasn’t sure what to actually call, and loaded it.

“Oh, I’m not jealous of the conversation you’re about to have,” said Harry. “I wonder if I’ll be able to hear this particular conversation, all the way from my new flat. Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “For helping move me in, fuckwit.”

“Oh,” said Ron. “What else would I have done, moved you into Mum and Dad’s? Although, come to think of it...”

“Don’t,” Harry groaned. “It’s really lovely, how hard she’s trying, I know she’s upset. Except--”

“Except she’s a nightmare,” said Ron. “Yeah, that’s Mum for you. You should come round this Sunday, though. Three missed dinners is enough, a fourth and Mum will contact the Department of International Magical Cooperation demanding your whereabouts. _ Lumos accensum _.” 

Harry sank into the armchair. “You don’t think it’s too soon for Ginny?” 

“Just pull it like a joint,” said Ron. “Nah. I mean, you’re not her favorite person right now, obviously, but I think she misses having an ally against Percy’s weekly state of the nation lecture. Charlie said he’s now going a full twelve minutes if you count interruptions.”

“Who’s actually for the lecture?” Harry asked idly. He took another hit. “Don’t tell me Hermione.”

“Her alternative is pretending to help Mum in the kitchen. You’re supposed to pass it back, you know. Hogging’s bad manners.”

“Rules don’t apply when you’re the chosen one,” said Harry. “Ow, fuck!” He rubbed at his temple, where the tip of Ron’s wand had bounced off him. 

“Do you like it, then?” Ron asked. He tried to catch his wand on the return and missed spectacularly. “Bollocks._ Accio _ w--oh, right.” 

“Serves you right,” said Harry. He thought for a moment. “I like it. What am I meant to be, erm, experiencing?”

Ron bent down to retrieve his wand manually. “I’m not telling you, you’ll only say what I want to hear.” 

“I don’t do that!” Harry protested. “Remember Jenkins in my annual review? I could, what was it, stand to ‘massage the truth’ more?’”

Ron opened his mouth to say,_ I meant with me, not in general _, and changed his mind. “Hasn’t Jenkins been on probation since the Easter hols? I wouldn’t take his advice on people. What do you like about it, specifically?”

“Hmm” said Harry, who appeared to be really getting the hang of the vaporizer. “So, I’ve been having this thing with my back--”

“It starts at your neck, you’ve been rubbing at it.”

“Right,” said Harry, taken aback. “Er, well, that’s gone. I think a lot of my tension is gone.”

“Good, said Ron. “And you don’t want to just go to sleep, yeah? It was trial and error, but I think I got this one right.”

Harry appraised Ron. “You are taking this seriously,” he said.

“You think that’s good?” Ron asked. 

“Fuck what I think.” Harry closed his eyes. His shoulders were visibly looser, though his mouth turned down in a slight frown. “But, obviously, yeah. It’s great. If I’m being honest, maybe I didn’t love the sound of it at first--”

“In fairness, I only just got the system down. Also, drug den in the basement is a hard sell,” said Ron. “Either pass it back or I’ll get my own!”

“Sorry. It’s good, though. You’ve got something here. Am I---I’m not being weird, am I? I don’t feel weird. But I can’t tell.”

“You’ve always been weird, Harry,” said Ron, with affection. “Listen, I know you’re going through it. I can help.”

“You are helping,” said Harry. Then he said, “Do you think Hermione thinks I’ve lost it?”

Ron pursed his lips. What Hermione had expressed to Ron was that they may have _ collectively _lost it: she was too fearful, all the time, Ron was depressed, and Harry had just sort of...snapped. Ginny was the exception. She’d always been slightly removed from the three of them, Ron thought. It made sense, to want to be.

“She does,” said Harry grimly. “And I have.”

“She thinks we all have!” said Ron. “Listen, we were bound to. Our kids are the ages we were when, you know, everything happened, and now we’re old as hell...I mean, I see why Mum’s always so wound up. And we haven’t totally lost it. You could have grown an awful beard.”

“I might grow a beard,” said Harry. 

“Grow a beard, if you like, just don’t grow an awful one. And what you should really be thinking about is getting back out there. Dating.”

“Ron. It’s been less than a month.”

“Yeah, but you said it yourself, it was over long before that and it’s not like you were...well, you should get back out there, is what I’m saying,” said Ron. “Plenty of women don’t pay attention to the Quibbler--”

“Just you, then,” said Harry. He indicated the stack of newspapers on the table with the Quibbler folded at the top before taking his glasses off to polish.

“--And I think it’ll be good for you to date around a bit. When have you ever done that, Harry? A proper date with a woman isn’t going to kill you. It’s a good idea.”

“It isn’t,” said Harry. His jaw was set. “I’m not ever going on another date with a woman.”

“Harry, come off it, don’t--”

“But I am ,” said Harry, putting his back glasses on to look at Ron fixedly, “interested in going on another date with a man.”

“Huh,” said Ron, letting out all the air in his lungs. “I’ll just go ahead and refill, shall I?” He kept looking at Harry. It was important he did not say anything wrong. His track record was not spotless, in terms of saying things that were wrong. Also, what was it about his basement? “Because we should...talk about this? _ Accio _cartridge.”

Harry gave a weak laugh. “I think I’ve just sent your blood pressure through the roof.”

“I’m digesting,” said Ron. There was Harry’s face, at twenty, looking him in the eyes on his wedding day. Ron had misappropriated that fear as something else. He’d reassured Harry. He’d gotten it wrong. “I’m digesting, but please don’t think I’m upset, or something. I’m not.”

“Okay,” said Harry. 

“Your wedding,” Ron went on. “I should have...I knew something was up. I should have stopped you, or….I’m sorry, Harry, I missed--”

Harry looked aghast. “Ron, shut the fuck up. This is not about you missing anything. Because, and I cannot stress this enough, it is not actually about you.”

“Right,” said Ron, feeling wounded. “No, you’re right, obviously. Sorry. Er...you can go on. If you like. _Lumos Accensum_.” He took a hit.

“That’s about as far as I’ve gotten.”

“Well, if that’s all,” said Ron, hoping Harry would return his smile. He did, and Ron handed him the vaporizer. “But when did this all...occur to you? I’m just wondering if this is a recent, ah, development?” This was why he didn’t do well without Hermione. She always did this part, the hard part, and he punched up to diffuse the tension. 

“The counselor said something about, had I considered it didn’t work out with Ginny because it never could; she just brought it up like it was the most natural idea to suggest. I was offended, at first, to tell you the truth. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It makes sense. A lot of it made sense. It’s just, there was always a part of me that didn’t fit, and now I think I know what that was.”

“Sounds lonely,” said Ron, without thinking.

Harry’s mouth flew open before he recovered. “It was, yeah. Wow. Well done.”

“Well _ done _?” snapped Ron, abandoning his sympathetic tone.

Harry looked sheepish. “All right. But I didn’t expect that.”

“What did you expect?” Ron asked. He suddenly felt queasy. What kind of person was he, if Harry thought he would react badly?

“Relax mate, I know you’re not a bigot. I’m just surprised you’re not asking more questions. Maybe while pacing round the room frantically, I don’t know.” When Seamus and Dean had sent their initial owl, Ron had spent several moments storming around the basement in self-directed anger, wondering how many times it was he’d called Seamus a giant poufter in jest, and what exactly had been wrong with him to do so.

“Seemed inappropriate,” said Ron. He handed Harry the cartridge. “It’s really as you said? You didn’t know all this time and pretend otherwise because you wanted an easier life?” 

Harry snorted so hard, it turned into a small coughing fit. “If I’ve been chasing an easier life, I’ve got a feeling I’ve been doing it wrong.”

“Fair enough.” Ron thought for a moment. “I’m still trying to wrap my mind around this. Not because you’re any different, or anything! But you were... lonely. Only savior of our generation aside, you were proper lonely, and I didn’t know. I didn’t know _ you _. But you’ve always known me.”

Harry flicked Ron lightly on the forehead. “Idiot. You know me better than anyone. You know me better than I know me. There’s a reason I’m doing this with you first. Before Ginny, or my own children, for that matter.”

Ron felt stupid, but in the way where he was glad to, because the alternative was worse. “Listen...you know I love you right? You’re an absolute ledge, always will be, I wouldn’t even say I love you like a brother because I don’t like my brothers that much. What else---”

“That’s enough, thanks,” said Harry, a little pink in the cheeks. “I can’t be arsed for a parade, not at this age. I’m hoping it will never have to be a big deal, tell you the truth.” He passed the cartridge back to Ron.

“Well, then, it’s settled,” said Ron, trying not to think about what would happen to Harry, or about the headlines and cameras that would never leave him alone. “You’ll just get on this new horse, try it out, make sure you’re keen, and--”

“Erm.” said Harry, in a new voice. “Who says I haven’t.”

Ron was floored. Here he was, learning new things about someone he thought he’d memorized down to the bones. “Harry, you absolute_ slag _,” he said, leaning forward and clapping Harry on the knee. “When did you find time to experiment with a bloke and then not tell me about it? I always tell you everything.”

“Which, as we’ve been over, is not strictly necessary,” said Harry, from behind his hands.

“But this is the best news I’ve had in weeks!” said Ron. “Nothing interesting happens anymore--”

“Yeah, we’ve all had quite a dull time of it,” said Harry dryly. “There’s been no time. You’ve been busy.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re not going to tell me anything? After all that, about how I know you better than you know you, heartwarming stuff, and you won’t even--”

“‘Piss off,” said Harry good-naturedly. “I will not.” 

“It was worth a shot,” said Ron, feeling no trace of embarrassment. “At least tell me his name. I am, quite literally, dying.”

Harry shot Ron a grin he’d never seen Harry wear before in his life. It was, frankly, a bit lecherous. “Oh, I’m not sure I learnt it.”

“Fucking hell,” said Ron, admiringly. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em Potter, that’s who you are now, just buggering chaps left and right---or being buggered, whatever you fancy—no point in getting a name, as they’ll be gone by morning. Absolute utter ledge.”

“Hardly,” said Harry. “And he didn’t know mine, either. I gave myself brown eyes for the night, and left the glasses, hid this.” He motioned towards his scar. “ I don’t like to deceive anyone, but...”

“A rat is the last thing you need,” Ron filled in. “That’s not deceiving anyone. Unless you threw in a twelve inch cock or something.”

“Why downgrade?” said Harry easily. 

Ron thought he’d better ask before this started bothering him. “So, listen. Ginny. Was that...I mean, you loved her, just not in that ...”

“Maybe,” said Harry. “Probably. I hope that’s better for her to hear. At least not worse?” Ron didn’t want to dwell on the specifics in the sense that it probably invoked their sex life (his sister was different from Harry; he preferred not to know) but if he knew Ginny, it would be a relief she hadn’t failed at something. 

Something interesting occurred to Ron. He took a penesive hit. “Harry, at school, you might not have really fancied Cho or anyone. Do you remember if there was someone else, maybe, that you liked instead?”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “What, you mean in our year?”

“Or any,” said Ron. “Listen, I know you’re not in love with me….” He paused, to look significantly at Harry, who flipped him off. “I’m just saying, I think we could all make it work, Hermione would understand...but being around someone during those years when your hormones are going wild, and we thought you liked gingers anyway, so it does stand to reason--”

“Christ on a bike!” said Harry, who liked the odd muggle expression. “I seem to recall someone eating a package of expired fudge in sixth year and shitting their pants. What part of that am I meant to be wanking away to, exactly?”

Ron was a bit stung. ‘All right. There’s still a lot of time before sixth year. A lot of times you saw me in the altogether.”

Harry made a _ pfft _ noise. “Do you want me to have fancied you? Is that what this is? It’s incredible to me, that you’re offended by this.”

“I’m not offended!” said Ron quickly. “I just wondered! Forget it. There are plenty of fitter men we were at school with. I understand.”

“Oh, please, Ron. It’s not about you being fit. It would be like incest--”

“It might feel that way now, sure. But it wasn’t _ always _ like that. Listen, it’s fine.” Ron wasn’t entirely sure if he was joking, or not.

“Let me say how much I admire your ability to make this about whether or not I ever fancied you at school instead of, oh, I don’t know, anything else. How is this personal?” 

“It just is! You never once took a look at me, thought, wow, look at Ron out on the Quidditch pitch, so handsome in his uniform, my, hasn’t he grown since last summer, I wonder if I’d fancy getting him under the goal posts in the dark. Not even then. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I get it.”

“Right,” said Harry. He was no longer meeting Ron’s eyes, but staring at the wall behind Ron’s head like it was suddenly very interesting. He coughed. Ron smiled.

Later, he insisted Harry take several cartridges for the road, as well as a proper hug goodbye. “One day,” he said, “you’ll tell me about that night. It doesn’t have to be soon. I’m a patient man.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the cannaburst, Ron.”

“Cheers!”

“Oh, and I sucked him off,” said Harry triumphantly, just before he Disapparated.

*

“Have I just missed Harry?” A disappointed Hermione found Ron in their living room trying to swipe at the air where Harry had stood seconds before. 

“You did,” said Ron, still reeling.

“Is he all right?” she asked, frowning at Ron’s expression. “I’ve been worried about him.”

“For a change of pace,” said Ron. “I think you should talk to him yourself.” Hermione looked at him quizzically. Advocating for a separate conversation wasn’t a common suggestion, especially since Ron liked having Hermione as backup for when he inevitably put his foot in his mouth. 

“I talk to him plenty, Ron. What’s going on?”

Ron bit his tongue and cursed inwardly at the sting. They’d relayed information about Harry back and forth to one another the same way they’d been doing since the age of about fifteen. It was undoubtedly a weird way to function--maybe it was a holdover from the war, maybe they were just stuck it the habit. It usually worked fine for everyone, except, probably, Ginny, Ron was realizing. Four people could not maintain a trio, but three people could stay in the same holding pattern for decades.

And now, Harry had something happening that Ron didn’t feel he could tell his own wife. “Hermione, I can’t. You have to ask him.” He wouldn’t make eye contact, instead preferring to keep his gaze fixed on where Harry had just stood, wondering if this was the right choice or if Harry would care. Ron hadn’t asked. He never bothered to ask.

She sounded affronted, which was only fair. “What do you mean, you can’t? I’m your wife, what am I...I’m just worried about him.” She tilted his chin, forcing him to look at her, and this was always how it happened. 

He shook his head. “He’s fine. This just isn’t my news to tell.” Hermione gave a sharp laugh, which sounded to Ron like a warning.

“Ron, what am I going to do, go to the press? He’s my friend too!” Friend wasn’t the word, though, and they both knew it. Friends were people like Neville or Seamus and Dean, or Luna. Ginny was Hermione’s sister too, more or less. But Harry was Harry. He was _ theirs _. 

(Ron wondered if they really should have made a go of it as a throuple. Apparently his daughter was a fan of the dynamic.)

“Hermione, I know how this sounds. He’s fine. I just can’t tell you. You’ll understand when you hear it.”

“Just wondering when it is I’ll get the pleasure,” said Hermione, in the particularly dangerous way she had. “I have nothing but time on my hands, as you know, so I’m really looking forward to making your timetable.” She waved her wand and a thimble of whiskey entered her hand, which she knocked back medicinally. She and Harry were both efficiency drinkers, as was often the case with people who worked long hours, whereas Ron took pleasure in the ritual.

“Listen, Hermione,” Ron pleaded. “It isn’t my place.” Ron didn’t want to put his own martial discomfort above Harry’s right to tell Hermione this information on his own, but he could feel himself starting to sweat. “Could you…maybe guess?”

“Could I maybe guess,” Hermione said mockingly. “Amazing, Ron, how you seem to know just the thing that will relax me after a long day at work, a whimsical game of finding out what’s been going on with Harry because my husband won’t fucking tell me!” She knocked back a second shot, which meant little, as her constitution was quite strong.

“Believe me, I would if it was anything else but this just isn’t my right, Hermione. It’s personal.”

“Personal about Harry?”

“It’s his private life,” said Ron.

“We’re his private life!” said Hermione. “What on earth...okay, fine. Fine. It’s his private life, and you don’t have the right to tell me, because…”

“Because, it’s not something he’s ever said before,” said Ron. 

“He’s not seeing someone already, is he?” Hermione was searching his expression for clues. 

“No, though he might start to,” said Ron. This was starting to feel like very poorly planned charades. 

Hermione opened and closed her mouth. “But then, he’s not…” Her eyes bored into Ron, straight through him, like they always did. 

“I can’t say it,” said Ron. “He’d never forgive me. I mean, not that this is going to put me in his good graces, exactly, but…’

“Gay,” said the brightest witch of her age. Ron nodded in relief.

Hermione’s mouth formed a perfect O. Finally, she said, “Oh, poor Harry.”

“I know,” he said grimly. “Can’t catch a break.”

“But to keep all that in, his whole life? I don’t understand. We wouldn’t have cared, nobody would have cared, we would have been more than supportive--” she looked sharply at Ron, “Unless one of us did something to suggest we wouldn’t have?”

Ron’s jaw jutted out. “I’m sure I said a great many ignorant things, Hermione, if that’s what you’re getting at, but Harry didn’t put it like he was keeping it in. I don’t think he realized at all, that’s what he told me. More like one day the counselor suggested it, and he sort of put it together. Like he’d been missing something all this time and didn’t see it. He’s been lonely.”

Hermione burst into tears.

Ron started wiping them hastily away with both thumbs. “No, see, you’ve got to...save these up, because Harry’s going to tell you and_ it’s going to be the first time you’ve heard _.” 

“I hope you were kind to him.”

Ron detangled himself from her and glared. “No, I made him go out the back via the special poufs only exit.”

Hermione glared back. “Oh, for heaven’s sake Ron, I know you’re not a bigot--”

“And that’s the second time I’ve heard that tonight! It doesn’t make me feel better. If you must know, I was worried I’d get it wrong the whole time, still am, and I was the first person he told, before Ginny, even. I told him I loved him, more than any of my brothers, and that he would always be an absolute ledge, so, yeah.”

Hermione’s eyes welled up again. “Well, that’s nice.”

“I’m nice,” said Ron, grumpily. 

Hermione laughed and kissed his temple. “Ginny doesn’t know?”

“No, and you can’t say--”

“I won’t! Unlike some of us, I am capable of keeping a secret.” Ron thought it not the time to point out she would have just froze him out had he not said anything. “I mean, it’s not exactly great news for her, but I’d imagine--”

“--It’s better than the alternative. Yeah,” Ron finished. “Ginny likes to win, you know? This way, she couldn’t have done anything differently.”

“You’re not worried about the kids, are you?” Hermione folded her eyebrows together.

“Not ours, obviously. The five words we’ve all heard Hugo say this year seem laid back. And I’ll have to warn Rosie not to buy him a bunch of rainbow gear this Christmas, you know how she gets. His….I don’t think so. Lily’s easy, she’s just happy to be included, and if anything Albus could use a bit of honesty from his father.” Ron carefully avoided mentioning the eldest Potter.

They both looked at each other. “Maybe...you could help talk to James,” said Hermione carefully. “As a backup, or something. He’s a good boy, but...”

“He’s got some growing up to do,” Ron agreed. James was Teddy’s godson. Lily and Albus were both their godchildren, and he felt it. James could be compassionate, especially towards his siblings, but he was quite rough around the edges, and since leaving school he’d lost his footing, a bit.

The only thing Hermione and Ron couldn’t talk about was Harry and Ginny’s parenting. It was easier to hem and haw and wonder what went wrong than to be confronted with obvious examples of what did go wrong, knowing your best friend and sister were the culprits. Ginny was always cleaning up Harry’s messes, and Hermione had long ago told Ron how unacceptable that dynamic would be in their house. Lily, at least, still stood a chance, though she was one of those children who had come out of the womb completely self-sufficient. Ron adored her.

Hermione tugged at the new coil of Ron’s hair that sloped down in front of his eyebrow. Then she stood apart from him, narrowing her eyes. “New jumper,” she accused.

“My old ones don’t fit,” said Ron.

“Well, who is she?”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve endured this little charade for several weeks, Ron. I thought maybe it was about Harry, but unless you’re about to tell me you’re having an affair with Harry--”

“You could both share me, it wouldn’t be like that--”

“Then I want to know who she is.” Her eyes had darkened. It was amazing, the capacity she had to switch gears so quickly and expect him to keep up. Amazing and terrifying.

“Babe...”

“Don’t you ‘babe’ me, Ronald Weasley! The weight loss, and the hair, and the clothes? I mean, for what? What’s gotten into you that you’ve decided you needed to be..._ fit _, all of a sudden? Could it be, I don’t know, that your frumpy wife is at work all day while you entertain bored housewives in your, your marijuana lair, getting them all relaxed and their inhibitions lowered, and then you distract me so I can’t properly confront you!” Hermione was panting. Ron wanted to kiss her, he was so touched at this show of jealousy, but he knew he had to come clean, instead.

“I’m not having an affair,” he said. “I would never.... I’m not wired that way. I know some people are, but I’m just not. What’s the point? From the day I realized I wanted to sleep with you, I had no interest in sleeping with anyone else. Bit weird, to start now.”

“Well you’ve stopped eating now, so there’s a first time for everything,” Hermione said nastily.

“I was depressed,” said Ron quietly. “You were right. I was depressed, Hermione. I’m only just---coming out of it, and it must have been awful to watch.” Her eyes softened, but she still held her arms stiffly at her sides. He had a feeling she never actually believed he was cheating. She just liked an argument.

“And you decided a makeover was the cure?”

“A business, actually,” said Ron. “I’d better go ahead and show you the basement.”

Hermione wasn’t angry. She muttered something about the greenhouse placement being a minor policy violation and waved her wand at to fix its position on the floor. She stalked the basement several times, pausing to stop at the few reference books on the shelves and noting pointedly that they were actually hers, and wasn’t it nice she was sharing them. She picked up the parchment on the table.

“Harry wants to help with the books,” said Ron, figuring she’d spot his handwriting. “But his profit margins are all wrong, I don’t have the heart to tell him, have a look at the older ones if you want a better sense.”

Hermione turned them over in her hand. “That’s quite a profit, Ron.”

“George gets a cut, the cartridges are his design. I’ve factored buying in bulk at just the maximum amount, but we’re increasing so rapidly it’s---”

Hermione was staring at him. “And this is just from a few weeks?”

“Yeah, I’ve marked my first sale by date, there. The _ Prophet _ ad did it. Ginny and Harry don’t count, obviously, what am I going to do, take their money, but it’s not much of a loss to give it away for free, not the rate people are buying. Neville was an even trade, for the greenhouse, but he goes through it like you wouldn’t believe. I was planning on telling you, obviously, I just wanted to make sure it was---working.”

“But why did you wait?” Hermione asked. She looked hurt. It didn’t occur to Ron she might be hurt, only angry.

“I--well, what if I failed? I didn’t want to bother you, if I failed.”

“Ron, I’ve seen you fail loads of times.”

“Cheers,” said Ron.

“No, I mean…I don’t care if you fail. We’re supposed to be a team. I want to know either way, whether you end up making hundreds of thousands of galleons isn’t the point. What I don’t want is to be stuck in the role of the wife who either forgives her husbands’ shortcomings or delivers an ultimatum.”

“But I don’t think of it like that,” said Ron, who hadn’t considered this at all.

“Of course you don’t. You don’t have to. I’m sure Harry didn’t ever want to put Ginny in that position, but he did, didn’t he, time and time again? It’s awful, Ron, when people see you as the wife. You wouldn’t believe what people said to me, when I went back to work and you stayed behind with the kids. They thought I was some evil..it was like I failed at being a woman.”

“But you can’t fail at being a woman. You are a woman,” said Ron stupidly. He did know what she was saying. The woman at the corner shop used to moon over him when he came in with baby Rose, asking if his wife knew how lucky she was to have a man who would take the kids off her hands for an hour. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t think about...you’re right. It’s not fair to put you in that position. I wouldn’t like it either.”

Hermione looked at him fiercely. “I’m not the wife, Ron. I won’t be the wife. I’m your partner.”

“You’re amazing,” said Ron reverently. “Okay. I won’t keep anything else from you. You should know…a client cut my hair.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “It looks good,” she admitted. “I don’t suppose they can do Black hair.”

“Funny thing about the client, though,” said Ron. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Line is from "Prizefighter", a song by Eels.
> 
> Part III will be all Draco POV if you came here for Draco/Harry! It just got too long for Part II.


	3. I Think Your Love Would be Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "His trouble was, he was always so certain; right up until Harry Potter pulled the rug out from under him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Harry and Draco need to have more difficult conversations but so far this fic could be called Difficult Conversations On the Sad Dad Hour so I wanted to get some action in!
> 
> I'm using Draco's Cursed Child characterization more accurately than for anyone else. Generally in this fic, the events happened, but the characterization is being disregarded (especially Ron's, Steve Kloves and Jack Thorne must be in touch). The Voldemort-related events in CC are referred to in canon as the "Calamity."
> 
> I don't know why Harry is so rich, but I think it stands to reason. In my mind, nobody in the wizarding world will ever actually take his money.
> 
> Thanks for taking a look Peter B and @ballerinaroy!

III.

The back door was slightly ajar on Draco’s fourth visit. Ron had given him a window of time, rather than an appointment slot.

“Come in,” called Ron. “Yeah, a few clients dropping in today,” he said to whoever was in the room with him. 

Draco thought he might run into Harry Potter, eventually. Wanted to, in fact. But he never quite imagined this would the way in which Potter entered his orbit again: at Ron’s work table, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, black stubble flecked with gray while he frowned at a roll of parchment. He chewed at his bottom lip and pushed his glasses up further in the abyss of his hair. The view was so patently unfair that Draco supposed Astoria was watching it and laughing.

“Hi Draco,” said Ron. Potter looked up sharply. “Oh, fuck, what is_ wrong _ with me,” Ron groaned. 

If someone had asked Draco which was scenario was least likely, him continuing to nurse a preoccupation with Harry Potter into his early middle years, or him starting to quite like Ron Weasley, he would have said the latter. No question. As it happened, he did quite like Ron Weasley. Ron reminded him more than a little of his son.

The stink of desperation and vulnerability that clung to him at Hogwarts wasn’t entirely gone, but he wore it differently now, like a snake ready to pounce. Ron would never want to hear it, but he could have been in Slytherin.

Also, he knew his way around a cannaburst plant. 

(Also...while he lacked Potter’s conventional looks, he was not unpleasant to look at. Draco would have once sworn on his mother’s life to the contrary. Turned out Granger had been playing the long game.)

He wanted to see how Ron would handle this, but couldn’t look away from Potter, who was blinking rapidly with his glasses now on the proper way, staring at Draco.

“Hi, _ Draco _?” Potter said, so venomously it sent a shiver up Draco’s spine. “Is this one of my actual nightmares, then? Ron?” He looked back towards Ron, who acted quickly.

“Excuse us, will you?” Ron said to Draco. Potter looked positively murderous. “_ Muffalito. _”

A very animated Potter began having it out with Ron, who stood there like a guilty child caught stealing from his mother’s purse. Draco wanted Ron to fight back (it would have made a fairly erotic picture) but got the sense Ron would sooner let Potter slice his arm off, and would probably claim he never had a use for it anyway.

Ron waited for Potter to wind down and began speaking rapidly, stepping closer to Potter and putting a hand on his shoulder. He gestured at Draco with the other hand several times, until Draco gave them a little wave. Ron continued speaking, and, eventually, Potter nodded his head a tiny fraction. Finally, Ron waved his wand and mouthed _ Excavo _, and Draco’s ears stopped ringing.

“Hi Ron,” said Draco. “Hello, Potter.”

Potter was breathing heavily. “Malfoy,” he said. “I can’t say I expected to see you here.”

“Oh, I should have known,” said Draco.

Ron looked between the two of them guiltily. “Er, that one’s on me. I think Draco’s early.”

“It’s nice your two best mates are both here supporting your business endeavours,” said Potter darkly. Draco was tickled, and let out an audible bubble of laughter.

Potter looked about ready to raise his wand. “I’m not sneering at you,” said Draco hastily. “I think it’s great, actually, that you’re still so close. I don’t have any friends.”

Potter looked to Ron, who ran a hand through his hair. “And you decided to open up your social calendar?”

Ron scratched his arm. “I wouldn’t say we were friends. It’s a business ...acquaintanceship.” Draco was honestly a bit disappointed. Not that he expected a different answer. But he might want to be Ron’s friend. 

Potter gestured to Ron’s hair and shirt (which was navy, Draco noted, with satisfaction). “He cut your _ hair _.” 

“That was business, too,” said Draco. “I forgot today was Saturday, honestly, I assumed you’d be at work.”

“I thought I’d help Ron with the books,” said Potter. He folded his arms. “I like maths,” he added. 

“Hermione works, most Saturdays,” said Ron casually, to the air.

Draco tried to steady his tremulous left hand by clamping his right hand over it and jamming them both into the pocket of his coat. “I get nightmares,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Supposed to feel sorry for you, am I?” snapped Potter, arms still crossed. 

“No,” said Draco. “No, I would never expect that. I’m only saying, I’m here because I get nightmares. This helps. That’s my only agenda. That, and to stop bloody shaking.” Both hands were at it now, he noted irritably. Both hands and his jaw wouldn’t stop clicking.

“Well,” said Potter, addressing Ron, who was deeply engaged in a twenty percent off coupon for Madame Malkin’s on the table, “He does make it hard not to feel sorry for him.” Ron nodded. Potter looked back over towards Draco. “The shaking, did you always...did it start after Astoria?”

“No,” said Draco. “It started when I thought Scorpius would die.” 

Harry let out a sharp breath. He looked somewhere at Draco’s left eyebrow. “I suppose that’s partly my fault.”

“It isn’t!” said Ron indignantly. “It’s not your fault at all.”

“Shut up, Ron,” said Potter, wearily rubbing his eyes. “Does the shaking stop, with the vaporizer?”

“Almost always,” said Draco. He wasn’t sure who Potter was asking.

“Put him out of his misery, I suppose,” said Harry. 

Ron put the coupon down and sighed. “What am I, a house elf? Yes, all right.” He tossed a cartridge to Draco, who pulled his vaporizer out of his pocket and lit the end. 

“I’ll just be...over in the corner, here,” said Draco, lowering himself into the armchair.

“I’ll join you,” said Ron pointedly. “Look, all I’m saying is, we all have some stuff in common now, don’t we?”

Potter came up sharply behind Ron. He was light on his feet, Draco noticed. Still athletic. “What exactly does that mean?”

‘Fatherhood’s the big one,” said Ron. “It makes us all go mad. I cry at everything now. Do you know, Hugo sent me an owl the other day just to say he missed me. He’s fourteen, so it doesn’t happen often. I practically had a fit, Hermione thought someone had died, but no, it was just me wailing away because my son missed me.” Draco wondered why Ron hadn’t thought to be a barrister or something. He wasn’t articulate, but there was something about the way he talked that made people want to listen.

Even Potter seemed to relax a bit, at Ron’s chattering, though he made no move to sit. Ron had, at some point, added an old wooden dining room chair to the arrangement.

“We love them and then we send them away,” said Draco. “It doesn’t really make any sense, especially because he’s all I think about. I mean, other people often have other children, or a living spouse, or something, so maybe I’m not the best judge of this.”

Potter leaned against the wall. “I don’t know. I’m single now, as well. I’m sure you’ve heard. Not that it’s...the same.” He actually looked slightly apologetic. 

“Not easy though,” said Draco, as though being generous with Harry Potter was something he did every Saturday. Ron and Draco were sharing the vaporizer. Harry was using his own.

Potter was staring at him now. “You really...you don’t have any friends, Malfoy?”

“No,” said Draco, feigning indifference. 

“And what, exactly, do you do with yourself all day?”

“Fuck all,” said Draco. “I used to be a collector. Just objects with, I suppose, interesting magical significance. But I sold a lot of them, and the ones left just don’t interest me like they used to.”

“More’s the pity,” said Potter. “Why don’t you go see Scoripius on a weekend?”

Draco and Ron shared a glance. “Generally speaking, it’s not exactly a teenager’s dream come true to spend his weekends with Daddy. Scorpius is, well, as you know, they’ve made a few more friends, started getting out more. He doesn’t need me showing up in Hogsmeade trying to buy him dinner, all titchy and sad looking. I’d embarrass him.”

Potter looked thoughtful. “My nineteen year old told me I ought to dye my hair if I’m going to date anybody. I had no idea where it came from but I guess I embarrass him. Maybe I should.”

In a moment Draco would replay for the rest of his life, he said, “I wouldn’t bother, men don’t care about that.” 

His cheeks flamed instantly as he realized his mistake, and he didn’t bother to hide it. His voice shook. “Fuck. I meant women, obviously, women, I wasn’t trying to insult you or anything, I swear. I have no idea why I....well, right, the thing is, I swing both ways, myself, and so it must have just been a slip up, and I meant no offense.” It was a long, unpleasant, and hideously personal apology to make to Harry Potter. He bit down hard on his lip, trying to focus on the pain.

Finally, he ventured a gaze back up to Potter. He was looking at Draco like he’d never seen him before in his life. He seemed…grateful? That couldn’t be right.

“Ron,” said Potter, slowly. “Would you go and get me the pan I left in your kitchen, last weekend? The one from the kitchen, which is upstairs?” He was looking at Ron significantly.

“Er…” said Ron.

“Oh, we’re alright,” said Potter. “I was hoping to have a...civilized conversation.”

“Aces,” said Ron. “But I think I’ll have both your wands, while I’m at it. If it’s all the same to you both.”

Draco tossed his wand to Ron. Potter did the same, which was, admittedly, a bit of a relief.

“Right,” said Ron, pocketing the wands. “I’ll just be upstairs, if anyone needs me. Upstairs in the, in the kitchen. I’ll just be back in a tick, unless of course, I find something else to occupy myself, for some reason, in which case, who knows, maybe I’ll be a bit longer.” He started marching up the stairs. “Off I go, to retrieve Harry’s broom from the kitchen.”

“Pan!” 

“Right, pan!” Ron took the last of the stairs and slammed the basement door. “Now where could that pan be!” he shouted, at a volume that would likely render them all temporarily deaf. “Here I go, in the kitchen to go and search for it.” There was a cacophony of sound.

“Are you going to sit?” Draco asked, after they’d adjusted to the noise. “And also, be so good as to tell me what’s happening?”

Potter did so, closing his eyes briefly. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed heavily. “I do prefer men,” he said, eyes still closed. “I don’t know how you got that, but, yeah, I do.”

“Oh,” said Draco. 

“Except I don’t actually know what I’m doing. I don’t know anything at all, except that apparently you had an idea. Did you--”

“I didn’t, actually,” said Draco hurriedly. “I haven’t the faintest idea how it slipped out. It just...I don’t know. It just did.”

“Right,” said Potter. 

“So that’s why you got divorced?” Draco asked. The world was starting to cave underneath his feet, and his heart was pounding, and Ron was upstairs causing a racket on their behalf, pretending to look for a nonexistent kitchen appliance.

“Yeah,” said Potter. “Well, no. I didn’t know at the time, but then I did, after. It’s...a good reason, I guess, all things considered.”

“Best reason, I expect,” said Draco.

“The thing is, I really don’t know what I’m doing, Malfoy. I’m new at this. I’m forty three.”

“Same,” said Draco. “We’ve got that in common now, as well.” Potter gave him the tiniest smile. It was just the right corner of his mouth turned up, but his eyes were bright. Draco was about to float into the ceiling on the back of that smile. 

“The absolute state of this window, it simply won’t do!” continued Ron, from upstairs. “I’ll just go ahead and give it a wipe, while I’m up here. Off I go! _ ‘Cause, babe, you charmed the heart right out of me _ …” He didn’t have a bad singing voice, although it was hard to tell at that decibel. Surely he’d lose his voice soon. “ _ To my whole life you hold the key _…”

Draco laughed. He wasn’t sure if Harry had ever heard him laugh properly. “Do you know, it’s hard not to like Weasley, once you spend enough time with him.” 

“He’s very likeable,” said Harry, grinning. It was an excellent smile, even bigger than the first, with a few laugh lines holding it together. Draco couldn’t get enough of them. Pathetic. 

“Wonder what that’s like,” said Draco, before he could stop himself. His voice, he was surprised to find, wasn’t as hard around the edges as it might have been.

“No idea,” said Harry. He looked thoughtful again. “Draco--Malfoy--”

“Draco,” said Draco, whose mouth was dry, probably because of the cannaburst, and no other reason.

“Draco. I get the feeling you’re not new at this, are you?”

“No,” said Draco. “Harry, listen, I’m sure you’ll get better offers, and I’m quite sure you don’t want to be seen in public with me, but if you ever want to...hear about...you know, where to go...or just...talk about anything, I’m happy to... Buy you a drink, or something.”

“_ You cast your spell and suddenly- _-oh shit. Just be another mo, I’m afraid I’ve dropped the cleaning solution on the floor!” bellowed Ron.

Harry gave Draco a few tiny nods. “I would. Like to. I’ve a flat, actually, that I started renting, a little west of here. I don’t have any visitors, except for Hermione and Celestina Warback there.”

Draco pulled a face. “What? What about your--”

“Fans?” Harry interrupted. He was teasing, Draco realized. This is what it sounded like when Harry Potter teased you, and didn’t want to dismember you.

“No, I meant, you know, your lot. The Gryffindor brigade. Surely you’re still in touch.”

“Yeah, of course,” said Harry. “Of course we are, I just…” he shifted uncomfortably.

“You aren’t out,” Draco realized. 

“Yeah,” said Harry. 

“It’s a pain in the arse,” said Draco. “To have to come out. _ They _should be the ones who have to, instead.”

“Don’t give Ron any ideas, he’d be only chuffed,” said Harry. “Anyway, if you wanted to...come over for a drink, at my flat, I...not as a date.” 

“Yes, of course not,” Draco lied. “I’ll bring something, do you drink--”

“Everything. I drink everything.” said Harry. He smiled again. Draco was in trouble. He smiled back.

Ron, who had been suspiciously silent in the manner of someone listening at the door, shouted, “Just a minute and I’ll head back down the stairs!”

“I’m always free,” Draco offered. 

“Tuesday?”

“Tuesday. I’ll send you an owl.”

Ron came barreling back down at once, holding, of all things, a stainless steel kettle. “Whew! Sorry about that. Here’s your tea kettle, Harry.” He deposited the kettle into Harry’s lap, looking remarkably pleased with himself.

“Good one,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “I’ve just remembered I have a tea kettle already, my mistake. Right, I’m off, I’ve got to figure out how to set up the new bed, and I’m not going to hire an insta-wizard, Ron, before you say anything.”

Ron rolled his eyes back. “Always the martyr.” 

“Bye, Ron,” said Harry. “Draco. This was fine? I’ll see you...around.”

“I’ll see you Tuesday,” said Draco, while Ron made a show of feigning shock, then resignation, then acceptance. He’d missed a career in entertainment, as well. Draco stood. “This was, at the risk of sounding tragic, the best fun I’ve had all week.”

Harry left out the back door. “See you tomorrow, Ron. And you, Draco...Tuesday.”

Ron and Draco watched Harry walk away. “That went well,” said Ron. Something in his tone made Draco give him a once over. 

“Weasley,” Draco breathed. “You set this up.”

Ron didn’t bother to deny it. “Not as a matchmaker, mind. I’m not saying that. I don’t want to be at St. Mungo’s identifying bodies. I just...well, Harry told me his news, and I don’t know anything about anything. That’s where I thought you’d be helpful. I want to help Harry, but I can’t, with this.”

“Just everything else,” said Draco, shaking his head. “That’s clever. Has anyone ever told you how clever you are?”

“Not quite,” said Ron. His ears were a little pink. “Thanks.” He gave Draco a lopsided grin. “Harry’s for whiskey or wine, by the way. He’ll _ drink _ beer, but he doesn’t like it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Draco, who hadn’t had a beer in years. Ron was probably the beer drinker.

“For your date,” said Ron. “Only joking, of course. Not a date!” He went to the desk for a small parcel with Draco’s preferred strain. Draco tossed him twenty three galleons. It didn’t feel weird anymore.

“Goodbye, Ron,” said Draco. 

“Draco?” Ron said, behind him. “I know I said we weren’t friends. But maybe we could be. You’re welcome to...stay for a bit. If you want.” He shrugged. “No pressure.”

“Of course I would,” said Draco, only slightly annoyed at how happy the thought made him.

*

_ Dad, _

_ Albus told me his father had shocking news! Did you know? If not I’ll tell you in person. I know you wouldn’t tell anyone (have you looked into a book club or something??) but not something to put in a letter. Albus shouldn’t have to read more press about his parents, even if his dad is kind of a git. _

_ I wouldn’t call myself “ready” for N.E.W.T.s in the sense that I’ve had to bribe a 6th yr into helping me with Ancient Runes but he’s fine with our method of payment which you needn’t concern yourself with. _

_ Looking forward to hols. A says hi. _

_ Your favorite son, _

_ Scorpius xx _

Ever since the Calamity, Scorpius had started saying “Dad” more often than not. Draco considered this a belated act of rebellion from his own father. They had been close, in their way, but “Dad” would have been a breach of contract. 

Draco’s letters home had been more like news reports, whereas his son was so open about what he was feeling it was gut-wrenching. His own father would have bristled and said something about emotional control, but he’d been raising his son alongside a loving wife and powerful friends who could pretend to want Voldemort back, rather than completely alone. Sometimes the way Scorpius wore his heart on his sleeve scared Draco.

He hadn’t met anyone else like that before getting reacquainted with Ron Weasley. Draco always thought Ron was surrounded by a nauseatingly large, happy family unit, even after they’d lost people in the war. While it was true he was often around people, Draco got the sense that, until the cannaburst, Ron’s energy had been singularly focused on the needs of Harry, Hermione, and his own children, and little else. 

Ron didn’t appear to have much of an identity at all, outside these people, but as a Malfoy, Draco could hardly judge. It was part of the reason he got on with Ron. Draco himself would prefer to die as a father, and a son, and a widower, rather than with any ties to the first wizarding war, but that wasn’t how things worked.

The way things worked, was: he was holding a bottle of wine Ron had recommended (with an exaggerated wink and clearly another ridiculous agenda Draco was choosing to ignore) outside a flat in Muggle London. 

Bloody fucking Muggle London. Of course. It was, admittedly, less than a kilometer to the nearest Wizarding area, but it was still so typical Harry Potter to feel right at home here.

It was raining. Draco was not a traditional umbrella user, as he was not a muggle, and was getting wet. He couldn’t ring the bell until half past. He didn’t know why he’d made this rule for himself but he wasn’t about to go back on it now. He was going to look like a drowned rodent. He rang the bell a minute early.

Harry came to the door at once, which could have been because he wanted Draco off his front steps as soon as possible. He was definitely growing a beard. Draco wanted to graze his teeth across it. He tried to banish the thought from his mind and instead said, winningly, “I’m wet because of the rain.”

Harry opened the door and said, “Wait until you’re inside, if you want to use a spell.” 

Draco opened his mouth to ask if Potter thought he was a colossal idiot and remembered he was trying a different approach. He forgot the spell when he was properly up the stairs and inside.

In the abstract, he knew Harry was financially comfortable. But just how comfortable had not been a full consideration until Draco stepped into what was hardly the cramped, divorced dad flat so many men of their generation eventually migrated to.

This was new money.

It was new money in the sense that the first thing that drew the eye were the glass paneling and immaculate wooden floors. The furniture was all gray, and leather, and the fireplace in the living room was a full wall panel. The kitchen appliances gleamed so intently it hurt Draco’s eyes to stare for too long. Beyond it, a hallway led to several rooms. There were small signs a wizard occupied the apartment: stacks of books floated in the living room where Harry hadn’t yet placed a bookcase, and Harry’s children’s faces were all blinking at him from individual kitchen clocks brandishing their location (“Hogwarts” and “Teddy’s”).

“Well, shit, Potter,” said Draco admiringly. “Nice place.”

“It’s a little empty for me,” Harry countered. He was definitely one of those people who were embarrassed about their wealth. Absburd.

“Some art on the walls would help,” Draco offered. “Make it feel a little less sterile.” 

“I don’t have great taste,” said Harry. 

“From the looks of it you’ve done alright,” said Draco. He brandished the wine at Harry. 

Harry took it and made a face at the label that lay between annoyed and impressed. “Did Ron…”

“I wanted an easy win,” said Draco.

“You always did,” Harry returned. His mouth twitched while he waved his wand to summon wine glasses that Draco knew, for a fact, were on the expensive side. Whether Harry knew he was flirting or not remained to be seen. Women were always throwing themselves at him, so it’s possible he never found it necessary to develop any skills in that area.

When Harry’s hand brushed his, Draco almost dropped his wine glass. His stomach actually fluttered. Madness, is what this was. He was an adult man, not a teenage boy who was about to go half-hard from accidental (on purpose?) hand contact. 

“You’re not shaking,” Harry observed. “Much, I mean.”

“It’s better at night, weirdly,” said Draco. “Oh,” he said, realizing he’d forgotten to dry himself off. He cast a hot air charm at his clothes with his free hand, cheeks burning. Who_ was _ he? 

Harry might have been hiding a smile behind his mouth on the glass. It was hard to tell. 

“Standing around is underrated, don’t you find?” said Draco. He wanted to stop looking at Harry’s mouth. 

Harry was unnervingly comfortable with silence. “Sit,” he said, after what felt like several centuries of Draco shifting in his trousers. 

Not wanting to be presumptuous, Draco waited until Harry led the way to the living room. Unlike Ron, he didn’t need coaching on buying a pair of jeans that fit. “That’s nice,” Draco said idly, at the patterned rug underneath his coffee table.

Draco decided the safest route was to sit on the couch beside Harry and leave a healthy distance in between. 

“I don’t have coasters,” Harry said, like he was remembering.

Draco levitated his wine glass instead of placing it on the table. “Now it won’t scratch,” he said. This was the most excruciating experience he’d ever had, not least because every sentence coming out of his mouth sounded like it was coming from someone he’d never met.

“I’m just going to….fuck it,” said Harry. He drained his glass. Draco immediately did the same, and Harry waved his wand to refill both with a heavier pour than the first.

“Here,” said Draco, fetching his vaporizer from his pocket. “Nobody said we had to do this sober.” He lit the end and passed it to Harry, first. The wine made him feel slightly less like the world’s most socially inept person.

Harry seemed to feel it too. He took a hit. “Right, that’s better,” he said. He finally looked directly at Draco. 

“You’ve been to the Twisted Wand?” Draco asked, pulling at the vaporizer and making a mental note to find out when Ron’s birthday was. 

“Once,” said Harry. “It’s….at least I wasn’t the oldest person in the room.”

“I don’t know if this is depressing or not, but I think they have an over forty night. Wednesdays, I want to say.” 

Harry laughed. “That explains it, then. I was there on a Wednesday.”

“You’ve always had good instincts,” said Draco. He was more than halfway down his second glass and feeling more like himself.

“I did all right,” said Harry, giving Draco an unusual smile that ignited something in his lower stomach and made him almost spill wine down his shirt. Fucking Merlin.

“I think I’m getting drunk, if it’s all the same to you,” said Draco. “I can get another bottle, if--”

“Oh, no, go on, I get it by the case,” said Harry. He finished his second glass and took another hit off the vaporizer, before summoning a bottle that appeared to be a different label from the same maker. “Did you know, at Hogwarts?”

“No,” said Draco. “But I like women, as well, so I think it was different.”

“I like women!” said Harry indignantly. His cheeks were flushed. “I mean...as friends.”

“So much so you accidentally married one,” said Draco, without thinking. “Sorry, that was horrible.”

Harry shrugged. “No, it’s basically true. I don’t know what I thought desire was. I was twenty. I thought I knew everything.”

“The older you get, the more you realize how little you know,” said Draco, finally beating Harry to refill their glasses.

Harry’s eyebrows flew up. “That’s good.”

“Well, it’s Weasley’s line,” Draco admitted. “I like the beard, by the way.”

“Yeah, as far as ex-wives go, I lucked out,” said Harry. He actually winked. “Sorry, I’m just learning these terms. Ron said that, really?” He toyed with the vaporizer in his hand before pulling.

Draco bit his lip. He didn’t want to be mean (unbelievably) given what Harry was currently doing to his lower extremities but he said, as casually as he could muster, “I get the sense Ron is underestimated, sometimes. Maybe I’m wrong.”

“You’re not,” Harry admitted. “The fact that you appear to _ care _is the thing I’m having trouble wrapping my head around, but there’s a first time for everything.” 

Draco found the bottom of his third glass. “Oh, I’ve always cared, Potter. Just about the wrong things, and in the completely wrong way. I wasted a lot of time.” Well, there it was. Couldn’t snatch that one back. Harry was going to kick him out of his house for drastically misreading the situation, or he was going to attack him for being too forward. Either one sounded fine.

Instead, Harry took another hit. His shirt was pulled up to his forearms, again. There was a scar on his hand in faded cursive that Draco couldn’t make out. Draco reached out for Harry’s wrist unthinkingly, snatching his hand back just before he made contact. The shaking would probably come back.

Harry appeared to understand what Draco was saying, at least on some level. He was swallowing repeatedly, even after he’d let go of the wine glass. He was incredibly flushed, which could just be the enthusiastic drinking. But he also seemed to decide that all this information was a problem for future Harry, because he said, “Did Astoria understand, then? As I recall, you got married the same year we did.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Draco. “She was ...amazing, about everything. She was the one who...we were open, actually. Right until she got sick. She even said that was no reason for me to stop having fun, but I didn’t feel like anything anymore, and then she died, and I really didn’t. So, it all stopped. And my life stopped, as well.” 

Harry gave a sharp intake of breath. They were making impressive work of the second bottle, and it had been less than an hour. “I don’t know what that’s like, Draco. To lose that. Or even to be in love, I don’t think.” 

“Well, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” said Draco warily, taking another hit off the vaporizer. “There are other forms of love that are stronger. Your kids.”

Harry looked at Draco a little unsteadily. “I’m not a good father.”

Draco didn’t bother to refute this, saying instead, “You love them, though. And they love you. It’s a good start. And you’ve got your ridiculous friends, who would literally move mountains for you. It’s more than most, Harry.” 

Harry stood. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He disappeared down the hallway, and Draco was left alone in Harry Potter’s posh London flat, having just heavily alluded to nursing a schoolboy crush his entire life.

There was a piece of parchment on the table. It was open and looked like it had been thumbed through half a dozen times. Draco bent forward to read it. It wasn’t snooping if he wasn’t touching it.

_ Dad, _

_ Thanks for lunch. I won’t tell Lily about the afters I promise but I AM 17! _

_ Anyway, I like when you admit you’re a human being. I’m happy for you. I think Lils is proud too but she’s busy with the new boyfriend. She probably didn’t tell you about him--He’s alright but a Ravenclaw of all things and kind of long winded. I promise to kill him if necessary. _

_ Just kidding. I did go round to Hagrid’s yesterday by the way to drop off your parcel. How old is he? Also, does he always cry? Honestly, Dad, you know how to pick them. He’s nice, though. Write me back if you want. _

_ Love _

_ Albus x _

_ PS Scorpius says well done & don’t worry, everyone knows the Skeeters are barking. _

Draco was smiling and smiling. He didn’t hear Harry come up behind him until a soft voice said, almost in his ear, “It’s the longest letter he’s ever written to just me.”

Draco looked up at Harry. “Not a good father my arse. I’d say you’re making strides, Harry.”

“You think so?” Harry asked, earnestly. His expression was so pure need, so childlike, it made Draco want to cry in frustration. Those green fucking eyes.

Draco had spent a long time coming to terms with his sexual feelings for Harry Potter. It had been gratifying to learn, in the past few days, that they were probably not the one-sided obsession of an aging lunatic, either. 

But he hadn’t bargained on wanting to shag Harry Potter while also caring about him. What kind of bullshit was that?

“Even Scorpius might be coming around to you. I got his letter yesterday,” said Draco. “Granted, he’s also bribing a sixth year for sexual favors, I’m pretty sure, so--”

“--Like father, like son,” finished Harry. His grin should have been barred by the Ministry as a criminal offense.

“I’ve never had to bribe anyone,” Draco said benignly. “Face it, Potter. People like you more the less you hide from us.” He didn’t mean to say _ us _. Had they killed the second bottle? He was going to tie Harry to his own couch and demand to know if he wanted Draco to blow him now before they both got too drunk, at this rate.

“I’m not hiding,” said Harry, and he was looking like he did on the field before a Quidditch match, like he did just before they dueled for the first or fiftieth time. He’d somehow moved much closer to Draco, right under his nose, without Draco noticing, the sneaky bastard. 

“No,” said Draco. One-word syllables felt safe, to hide the way his voice shook.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Harry. He was inches from Draco’s face on the couch now. The scar was much fainter than Draco had ever seen it. Had he been wearing the same glasses his entire life, and was there a particular reason he felt the need to so?

Draco wanted to say this, or anything, but found he didn’t have the words. He frowned. Harry echoed the ghost of a frown back. The expression read like he was about to testify in court and trying to gather the right words. 

Harry licked his lips. “Right,” he said to himself. His hand went to Draco’s collarbone, his thumb grazing back and forth a little. 

“Are you going to---” Draco began. His voice sounded ragged.

His trouble was, he was always so certain; right up until Harry Potter pulled the rug out from under him.

“Yes,” said Harry, against Draco’s mouth, toppling into the kiss with what felt like relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I think your love would be too much" is from Post Malone's "Sunflower." Which, yes is from the Into the Spiderverse soundtrack.
> 
> Ron is singing Celestina Warback's "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me."


	4. Honey, It Never Stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Remember Draco Malfoy, what laughs we had at school together, and more recently when our sons almost got themselves killed, well, funny story, tell you about it in person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally looked at the Cursed Child script. Harry, Ginny and Hermione come around to Draco way sooner than Ron. I don’t love how they portray him there so I’m just bypassing it. 
> 
> That said, Draco and Harry left on first name terms in CC, which makes sense—I could have written that differently. For now, maybe grief, sexual tension and Harry’s divorce/sexual awakening put them on edge in Chapter 3. 
> 
> I know these chapters have been a lot of like...seated conversations with depressed adult men. Parts 5-7 are more plot-driven if you’re currently wondering whether I used the “worldbuilding” tag for wizard weed and nothing else. I am planning on more “big” magic/plot involving other characters! But still mostly interpersonal drama, lbr. 
> 
> Thanks to @leoandsnake, Peter B and @ballerinaroy for talking through some of this chapter! I wanted to get it out before I work on Part 5 so the second part is decidedly un-beta'd.
> 
> At this point my notes section is a Ted Talk so please just ask if you have questions about my “ideas."

IV.

Draco had anticipated that if he ever kissed Harry Potter, it would be like going back to war. He was starting to learn his predictions did not hold weight where Harry was concerned. 

At first, Harry kissed him so forcefully Draco’s wine glass lost its levitation charm and shattered to the floor. Harry laughed and kissed Draco even harder--he kept laughing into the kiss, like kissing Draco was the funniest thing to ever happen in his life, which was fair.

Draco wanted to touch Harry’s bicep, his stomach, and the small of his back, all at once, without having to stop gripping the back of Harry’s head and getting his hands in that hair. 

Harry switched gears all the time, while he was kissing him. It was impossible to keep up with, not like going to war at all, but like being knocked off the back of a broomstick, rescued in midair, and then suspended over a goal post.

He slowed down, kissing down Draco’s neck. Then he sped up again, biting Draco’s lip, hard, his beard rough as it scratched Draco’s cheek and Draco moaned into Harry’s mouth. Then he kissed him softly, pressing his hand to Draco’s chest long enough to grin at the feel of Draco’s idiot heart pounding, before he pushed him back down again into the couch. 

This was why he was the better Seeker, the fucking tosser. Completely unpredictable.

He was going to get Harry’s shirt off or die trying. Harry laughed. Apparently he had vocalized this aloud. The connection between his brain and mouth was broken. There was only his brain, his cock, and Harry Potter’s skin, which was trapped inside his clothes.

“I’m glad you find this so entertaining,” Draco panted, finally succeeding in pulling Harry’s shirt over his head. He was going to wipe that smirk off his face, just as soon as he recovered. What kind of person maintained proper abs, after three kids?

“It’s the best fun I’ve had all week,” said Harry. Draco growled into Harry’s throat and bit down, softly, trying to take his time, trying not to maul him like a teengaer. His teeth grazed Harry’s chest, and he worked around battle wounds and Auror injuries. Draco stopped to brush his lips lightly against a faint, V-shaped mark on Harry’s rib cage. Harry shuddered on top of him. He moved lower, his hands finding the trail of hair on Harry’s lower stomach, toying with the buttons on Harry’s jeans, giving him time to say no, if he came to his senses suddenly. 

Harry groaned, and Draco liked the sound of it, and wanted him to do it again. He felt Harry underneath his jeans with his hands, and said, “Can I?”

(Draco thought Harry would have said “Bedroom,” or something, the way men often did when they thought they were being smooth. Why he bothered to keep involving his thoughts where Harry was concerned, he didn’t know, because they did not end up making it to the bedroom.)

Harry shook his head yes_ , _finally not smiling anymore, but pressing down greedily into Draco’s hand. Draco ran with it, unbuttoning Harry’s jeans, remembering exactly one thing he knew how to do, which was a spell that took them off while Harry was still writhing on top of him.

Harry snatched his wand before it hit the floor and said, “You aren’t staying dressed.” He waved it at Draco. Draco noted, idly, that his briefs were still on, like Harry didn’t quite want to go there without Draco’s permission.

It was sweet.

Draco didn’t want to dwell any further on the sweetness of Harry Potter without getting his mouth around him. He freed Harry from his boxers and felt his cock against his hand, the heat of it jolting up through Draco’s fingers and up to his own burning face.

He was in trouble when he lowered his head. He was in trouble when Harry said _ fuck _ through gritted teeth, and when he felt Harry move with him, and when Harry’s hands were unbearably gentle in his hair, and when Harry cried out again wordlessly—the sound was too decent, too pure, for the filthiness of Draco’s mouth around him, and it was trouble, trouble, trouble.

It was trouble, later, when Harry’s hands were roaming Draco’s torso, when he winced at the Sectumsempra scars and started an apology that Draco kissed away. And when Harry said, “Is this okay?” in an achingly honest voice without any other agenda, when he gripped Draco more firmly and worked him with his hand, when Draco said his name, it was more fucking trouble, but not more trouble than it was worth, because it was, absolutely, worth it.

Afterwards, in the manner of someone asking for directions to the nearest Floo network, Harry asked if Draco would like to do this again sometime. 

“_ Reparo, _” said Draco, to the wine glass on the floor. “Yes,” he said, to Harry.

*

He was back on Thursday, when he saw the inside of Harry’s bedroom for the first time. They were not actually fucking, yet. He’d wanted to see Harry’s bedroom, and he said so, and Harry showed it to him. He wondered what their lives would have been like if it had simply always been that easy to ask.

Maybe it had.

“Headboard’s crooked,” said Draco. “Here, let me.” He used his wand to bring up the left side, slightly. “Sorry...if you want it back…”

“Why would I want you to undo what you just fixed?” Harry asked, eyes glinting. He squeezed Draco on the shoulder, then froze in place, keeping his eyes on the headboard. “Oh...I’m not sure why I did that.” He let his hand flop back down.

“It’s okay,” said Draco, hurriedly. “I mean, unless it isn’t.”

“Right,” said Harry. “It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” said Draco. He found he missed the warmth where Harry’s hand had been. Harry’s shirt had ridden up a bit. Draco bit his lip. “Potter, how the hell do you look...the way that you look after three kids?”

Harry’s eyebrows flew up. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said. He did, though, was the thing, the complete tosser. 

Draco sighed. “I’m just wondering how it is you’re so genetically blessed, unless you’ve been taking a potion that will wear off as soon as I--

Harry looked a little pink in the cheeks. “I eat properly, for one thing,” he said. “Unlike….I mean, at this rate, I’m going to have to take both you and Ron to a feeding clinic.”

There was no polite way to note that Ron actually looked much better than he had before the weight loss, and Draco was now finding that when he said things that were hurtful, intentional or not, he no longer felt better. Instead, he said, “Well, I was never good, about food. Ron’s just going through a phase, or something.”

“You’d know him best, I’m sure,” said Harry, winking. It was preposterous, how much this man winked, and how everyone just went about their day as normal, with no need to recover from it. Draco had not yet mastered this. “If I order takeaway, will you at least eat it?”

Draco leaned up against the bedroom wall. “Yes, but I’m staying in here while we wait.” Harry gave him another prurient smile before dropping to his knees.

A short time later, Harry sat on the bed with his knees tucked into his chest, brow furrowed. As Draco had already surmised, he’d only ever been with the man from the Twisted Wand. “There’s stuff I haven’t...I sucked him off, and that was all. If that bothers you.”

Draco had been closing his eyes in his post-orgasm haze, but something in Harry’s voice made him open them wide. “I mean, I’m not going to force...what are you saying?”

“Just, if it bothers you,” said Harry, the line on his forehead deepening. “I really don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’m not sure what else it is I’m going to, I guess, be good at.”

Draco sat up and found himself, for the umpteenth time this week, genuinely concerned for Harry’s well being. “Harry, it’s not about being good at...No, it doesn’t bother me. You figured out how to have children without an instruction manual, I’d imagine.”

“That’s different,” said Harry.

“No, it only seems different,” said Draco. “If this is your roundabout way of saying you aren’t ready for penetrative sex I am completely fine with--”

“What if it’s my way of saying I might_ want _ to try it but I don’t know what I’m doing?” The fact that Harry did not appear to understand the gift he was giving Draco here was another truly baffling aspect of who he was.

“It’ll be humbling for you, to learn something new,” said Draco. “Open a bottle of wine, Harry. I’ll take care of you.”

*

Saturday’s rain was the of the faintly mocking variety, where taking precautions felt superfluous and weak against what was basically mist, but not taking any meant getting wet.

Harry was on his front steps wrestling with a broken umbrella. His glasses were fogging up, a little, which both irritated and charmed Draco. A muggle boy who looked about ten was on the sidewalk in front of Harry’s flat entrance, and stopped walking to watch Harry. The umbrella had flipped completely inside out, and Harry was cursing profously, trying to pull it back in with no success.

“_ Reparo, _” Harry said irritably. The umbrella righted itself and the muggle child gaped and pointed, opening his mouth. Harry froze. 

Draco sighed heavily and stepped in front of the boy. “Your shoe’s untied,” he said. While he looked down, Draco touched his wand to his head to obliviate him. The boy looked back up, dreamily. “Off you go,” said Draco, watching as the boy trotted back down the street.

Harry winced in thanks as Draco joined him at the door, mumbling something about needing a proper raincoat to avoid this sort of thing while he let them in.

“Well, you don’t have to live around here, just because you’re fond of this world.” 

Harry gave Draco an odd stare. “Wouldn’t say I’m fond of it.”

“I thought you liked muggles. I mean, obviously, I’m not the best judge of what appropriate behavior is, but you always…” Draco trailed off, realizing there wasn’t a memory to conjure where he thought one would be.

“I like muggles,” said Harry. “I don’t especially love their society.”

“But you grew up in it,” said Draco.

Harry looked at him sharply. “I’m not trying to win any contests, Draco, but I thought you knew what my childhood was like. I was glad to leave it.”

They had carefully avoided discussing the events around their sons, especially Godric’s Hollow. The image of Harry’s parents being murdered, and Harry having to relive that trauma as an adult, had been seared into Draco’s memory. It was inconceivable that after that he’d been taken in by a pair of worthless louts. How could anyone walk around with all that?

“I’d forgotten,” Draco said, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Harry waved his hand in the air dismissively. “I live here because the press has been on me, ever since Ginny and I split, and I don’t want them to know where I live.”

“Oh,” said Draco. “Well, they’re like that because they’re jealous of you.”

Harry let out a piercing laugh. “Of my divorce? I’ll be sure to tell them that next time.”

“Just of you, generally,” said Draco. He moved closer to Harry. “You’re aging well, which people hate.” He brushed Harry’s forearm lightly with his own. “And you should be able to live where you like,” he said, stroking Harry’s wrist before backing away. “I don’t know why...I wasn’t making a pass at you. Yet, I mean.” His hands shook, and he folded his arms to try and contain them.

Harry smiled, then frowned. “You’re shaking again. Does it happen when you’re, er, nervous?”

“No, it happens when I’m jolly well--yes. More or less.”

“Why are you nervous?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“I thought I might have offended you,” said Draco, honestly. “I’m not brewing with a full cauldron today, I don’t think.”

“You’re nervous because you thought you might have offended me,” said Harry. A smile played at his lips. “That’s _ adorable _, Malfoy.”

Draco said nothing, choosing instead to go and hang his coat. The shaking was starting to quell, for reasons he wasn’t interested in exploring.

“You’ve been nervous around me,” said Harry, his smile widening. “That’s why you were shaking at Ron’s, as well, wasn’t it?”

“Do they give out the Order of Merlin for keen insight?” Draco asked, rolling his eyes. “Yes, Harry, sometimes I am nervous around you.”

“Well, don’t be,” said Harry. 

“Cheers,” said Draco. 

Harry was beaming now. “You’re starting to sound a bit like Ron, did you know?” Draco was now spending multiple hours a week in Ron’s basement, so this was probably true, though Draco was starting to feel like he was losing his grip on this conversation.

“Won’t it be nice when we all attend the class reunion together,” said Draco. He moved in front of Harry again and dragged his thumb against Harry’s lip. “And now, I am definitely making a pass at you, Potter.” 

Harry bit down on his finger until Malfoy released it. “Finally.”

*

Draco frequently set appropriate boundaries in his head, and then chose never to vocalize them. The fact that they existed at all, as thoughts, should bend them to reality, rather than having to articulate his own needs or desires aloud. The concept was embarrassing.

Countless times over the past month he’d thought staying the night was out of the question, but he woke up one morning in Harry’s bed anyway, like an absolute sodding fuckjob of a person. He’d simply fallen asleep, which in and of itself was an insulting reminder that he was no longer young.

“I’m surprised you didn’t sneak out,” said Harry. Without his glasses, his eyes showed his amusement so clearly it made Draco’s chest feel tight.

“I thought about it,” said Draco. Harry covered his Draco’s hand with his own, just to his knuckles. “This is not a usual situation for me.” It was going to destroy Draco, if he didn’t get ahead of it.

Harry felt for his glasses on the nightstand with the other hand. “I’ve never had a usual situation in my life. You should lean into it.”

Draco’s breath hitched. “Harry...I can’t keep--"

Harry snatched his hand back. “You’re not seriously breaking it off with me because you spent the night.” He looked hurt, somehow_ . _This was not working.

Draco didn’t move and said, “No, that’s not...I’m saying I can’t keep this casual. I am not going to be able to keep this casual.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and almost laughed, but it didn’t quite come out. “I wasn’t actually aware this was casual.”

Draco’s head was spinning. He pulled the bed sheet up to his chest. “I’m not seeing anyone else, I mean, but it’s...I’m saying this isn’t just sex. For me. I can’t keep doing this if it’s just sex.”

Harry really laughed, this time. The furrowed line on his brow disappeared. “It’s never just sex, Malfoy. God, is that all? I thought you were going to tell me something really distressing, you looked like you were about to be sick.”

Draco’s stomach bottomed out, like a thousand birds has just flown out of it. Like the ocean had been emptied. “But what I’m saying is I would want to take you out.”

Harry actually leaned over and pecked Malfoy on the cheek. Fucking unbelievable. “Good, I like going out. Have to face the world sometime, don’t I?”

This was not a possibility, because Draco had not allowed it to be. This was not a possibility, because it was already happening, inside Harry’s bedroom, in the sober light of morning.

Draco finally found some semblance of speech. “Just so I’m clear. About what you’re saying. You’re saying I can take you out, in public, that you would go out in public, together. You with me.” He grabbed inelegantly at Harry’s fingers.

Harry took his hand. “You’ve established a definition of ‘out’ that we both seem to be in agreement of, yeah.”

“Harry, being seen with me, you know, like...this, you really wouldn’t mind?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Generally I wear clothes when I’m out of doors, but otherwise... Would you mind?”

Draco laughed, now. “I have absolutely nowhere to go but up. Being seen with you would do wonders for my reputation--”

“In that case, forget it,” said Harry.

“--But you’d be signing up for a lot of negative attention in the press. This, specifically, might get you negative attention.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Negative attention? In the press? Wow, what’s that like?” 

The world titled, a little bit, on its axis. It felt fantastic. “I read this all wrong,” said Draco, amazed. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” said Harry, tracing circles around Draco’s shoulder blade. “Yeah, I do like you, Draco. This isn’t just sex. So, if we’ve cleared that up, will you stop treating me like I’m for hire?” 

Draco smoothed Harry’s hair down and watched the ends spring instantly back up. “I didn’t mean to. I just thought you tolerated me because you were sleeping with me.”

“That’ll be difference between us. If I’m sleeping with someone, I don’t merely tolerate them,” Harry said.

“Not so different, actually,” said Draco.

Harry flicked Draco lightly on the shoulder. “Honestly. ‘I can’t keep having _ casual _ sex with you, Harry, it will interfere with my busy schedule of gazing adoringly at you and calling you fit all the time _ . _’” His impression of Draco sounded rather like the late Cornelius Fudge. 

“You could have said something!” Draco snapped, but there was no bite in it, because he couldn’t stop smiling.

“What, and miss the look on your face now?” 

Harry was laughing again, and Draco kissed him, hard, even though it was morning and they both had terrible breath. It was the only reliable way to stop Harry from laughing. He felt for Harry’s glasses and removed them, only breaking the kiss to say, “And why do you still wear these? There are spells, at least other pairs of glasses--”

Harry bit down on Draco’s lower lip. “They’re sort of my trademark.”

Harry was stronger, and faster. Draco was needier. He flipped Harry onto his back and pinned his wrists, saying into Harry’s ear, “I have to fuck that line out of you, Potter. It’s my civic duty.”

“And you_ like _ me,” Harry mumbled into the pillow. 

*

They’d been to enough quiet dinners now, and Draco wanted to take Harry to lunch. Draco suggested they meet off Knockturn, but Harry said that made him feel seedy, so they ended up in an upscale, low-lit pub near Twilfitt and Tattings. 

Draco was early. There were a small handful of occupied tables, and only a couple of day drunks at the bar. He slipped the hostess an extra galleon for the most private booth available. She winked, saucily, and Draco fought the urge to hex the menus out of her hands.

Harry arrived with hair that had lost a battle with the wind outside. He smiled when he saw Draco, but it turned down a little when he slid into the booth across from him. “You’re--”

“Shaking, I know. Try being less famous or good looking, would you?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. His hand covered Draco’s. “What’s the real reason?”

“I don’t always know,” said Draco. He took a deep breath, then looked down at their hands. Harry was steadying him, visibly. He looked back up at Harry. “Oh,” he said.

“Oh,” said Harry back, in the softest voice Draco had ever heard. They didn’t say anything else, for a few moments. Draco shifted his gaze back towards their hands. He could never look into Harry’s eyes for too long without saying something utterly ridiculous.

Harry insisted Draco order fish and chips, determined as he was to see him go up a waist size before the year was out. “Are you that invested?” Draco asked, meaning it as a joke, and hearing how it sounded like the opposite of one.

“Are you not?” Harry responded. He was more relaxed than he’d been the other week, probably because he’d figured out Draco’s taciturn approach to conversations like this.

Draco took Harry’s other hand and forced himself to look up. His heart thudded violently, but he felt grounded. It was like being a teenager but actually recognizing the weight of what you had. “I’ve only felt this way once before,” said Draco. “Not to compare,” he added, quickly. “Just so you know.”

Harry blushed. He was a fantastic blusher. “We should probably tell...what are Albus and Scorpius going to say?”

“You can’t predict what anyone says,” said Draco, honestly. “Least of all your children.”

Harry scoffed and stole a chip from Draco’s plate. He’d ordered his salad with real feeling, like he’d expected an International Wizarding Order of Merit for it. “Best guess.”

“It depends on what it is we’re telling them,” said Draco, pushing his plate towards Harry. “What were you going to say?”

“No, have at least one more,” said Harry, sending the plate back. “Er...I was just going to…you know...” Draco laughed at his shifty expression.

“You haven’t thought about it. Really, Harry, it might do you some good to be a little less impulsive.”

Harry pressed a chip into Draco’s mouth. “If I were less impulsive, you’d still be mooning over me with absolutely nothing to show for it.” Draco chewed and swallowed. It was too salty.

“This wasn’t impulsive, Potter, it was about three decades in the making.”

Harry shook his head. “For you, maybe. I think it feels new.” His earnestness made Draco’s breath catch in his throat. Grown men shouldn’t have cause to be so earnest, but Harry carried it with confidence, like he was daring you to call him naive. And he wasn’t naive.

“Right, so I’ll tell Scorpius about my new partner, Harry Potter, whom I’ve only met recently,” said Draco. Harry pulled a face and Draco wanted to slide down onto the floor._ Partner. _What was the matter with him?

“I’ve had about seven partners at work, you can’t call me that. What else do people say? Boyfriend?”

Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry on the mouth. Harry’s color rose, again.

“Absolutely not,” Draco breathed. “I’ll just say we’re dating, how’s that?”

“Then that’s what I’ll say. See? Barely had to think about it.” Harry said. 

Draco shifted a little in his seat. “Albus and I have always got on, but the rest of them...I’m not saying they aren’t right to be wary of me. Ginny was starting to like me, but that was before.”

“Well, you’ve got a great ally in Ron,” said Harry, shaking his head in amusement. (Ron and Hermione knew, because Ron had forced it out of them and, then, according to Ron, Hermione had guessed.) “No, Gin’s probably for it. James surprised me with how well he took the split, and Lily’s got a good head on her shoulders. The extended family might be a challenge, but you don’t need to start turning up at Sunday dinners just yet.” Draco hoped he had months ahead of him there. The Weasley brothers were a terrifying prospect. 

“You’re still on a nickname basis with her, then,” said Draco. Harry’s eyebrows rose and Draco adjusted his tone. “I’m not jealous. That’s impressive, Harry.”

“She’s important to me,” Harry said. “I just hope....” he trailed off, frowning at his salad. “She’s still the love of my life, in a way.” 

“I don’t think most people stop at one love of their life,” Draco said. “You know, Ron is in love with you. Not sexually, just, er, whatever it is.”

“Yeah, it’s mutual,” said Harry. He picked at the hair on his beard. “The three of us have always been—it isn’t romantic, or about sex. Well, no, it is, actually, just not when I’m around.” His laugh wasn’t bitter, but it was rueful. Draco had only ever had cronies and couldn’t relate. 

It may have been another prophecy, that the golden trio would never age out of their unreachable intimacy. What else explained it? The only thing to do was to accept it, and Slytherins had essentially invented the art of accepting weirdness. 

Harry checked his watch and groaned. “I don’t want to go back there.”

“I thought you liked your job,” said Draco, cocking an eyebrow. 

“I did. I’m not really sure. Maybe I’m just getting old.” 

“Come on, I’ll walk you back.” Draco took care of the check. Harry certainly wanted to be generous, but nearly every shop and restaurant acted like taking his money would be a moral affront. Treating him to lunch was the solution.

(Most of the public was either in love with Harry Potter or teeming with jealousy, which made sense. What made less sense was that after you got to know him, just Harry, he was _ easier _ to love. You’d cut your heart out and hand it over if he asked you to. Or follow him to war.)

Once they were close to the outskirts of Diagon Alley, Harry stopped for a moment. “I should probably...we’re going to be seen. There’s bound to be a journo or two once we’re back in Ministry territory.” The wind was at it again and Harry’s hair was preparing to take flight.

“I can wait to—” said Draco. He hadn’t thought about the press, which was idiotic of him.

“I’d rather not,” said Harry. 

“Send everyone an owl this afternoon,” said Draco. “Remember Draco Malfoy, what laughs we had at school together, and more recently when our sons almost got themselves killed, well, funny story, tell you about it in person.”

Harry snorted. “I might do. No, I think I will. I’m sick of everything having to be a conversation.” He bumped Draco gently on the shoulder and started walking again. “Are you coming?”

Draco caught up and cleared his throat. “I’m not against hand holding, as a general rule, so you’re aware.”

“‘Do you mind if I hold your hand, Harry?’ Or just take it. That’s what a normal person would do,” Harry said, lacing their fingers together.

***

** _THE CHOSEN ONE’S CHOSEN CONSORT: HARRY POTTER’S WHIRLWIND ROMANCE WITH MALFOY HEIR REVEALED_ **

_ By Rita Skeeter _

Harry Potter, aging celebrity and reluctant savior of the Wizarding World, sent shock waves around London yesterday when he was spotted hand in hand with the reclusive former Death Eater Draco Malfoy. The couple made a handsome, if unexpected, pair, as Potter shirked his Department of Magical Law Enforcement duties to duck out to lunch with his new boy toy. 

Malfoy is known for his stirring, emotional testimony to the Wizengamot about his adolescence in servitude to the Dark Lord during the Second Wizarding War, rendering him one of the few former Death Eaters to avoid Azkaban. Potter’s decision to put in a good word for Malfoy all those years ago takes on new meaning now. Were the two secret lovers at Hogwarts? Or did they reconnect years later, both lives marred by tragedy and heartbreak, thrown together by the friendship of their troubled young sons?

Whatever the reason, the relationship certainly sheds new light on Potter’s divorce from Prophet Sports Editor Ginny Potter, who refused to comment on this story for reasons we can only speculate on—-embarrassment, perhaps, or resentment. Homophobia is a prejudice long held in old Wizarding families, and Potter and Malfoy will certainly face their share of it, though coming from the mother of one’s own children it is surely all the more painful.

This writer has been fortunate enough to enjoy a close friendship with both Potter and Malfoy over the years, and is overjoyed to finally be able to share the news of their budding romance. One can only hope the rosy path of love for Misters Potter and Malfoy is not littered with thorns.

“Well,” said Ron, breaking the prolonged silence, “I think that’s the nicest article Skeeter’s ever written about you.” He clicked his tongue at the enclosed photograph of Harry and Draco, who were indeed hand in hand outside the phone booth entrance to the Ministry, trying unsuccessfully to move out of frame. 

“I should have let her suffocate in that jar,” said Hermione darkly. “The beard does look nice, though, Harry.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. “I thought she retired, wasn’t a cousin or something taking over for her?”

“Niece,” said Ron. “But now I think that was still her using a...what d’you call it—”

“Pseudonym,” said Hermione. She stood up from the couch, wordlessly summoning Harry’s tea cup and saucer into the kitchen. Ron floated Harry’s jacket over from the couch to the coat rack.

“Will you both stop,” said Harry, without much conviction. “I don’t need you doing things for me all the time.”

“Think of it as one less thorn on the rosy path to love, mate,” said Ron. Harry groaned.

Hermione returned to her seat and covered Harry’s hand with her own. “You know we worry, Harry—”

Ron guffawed and Hermione looked at him sharply. “What? Of course he knows, Hermione, I don’t think there’s a living soul who doesn’t know how much you worry—”

“As always, Ron, thanks for your help. It’s not that we aren’t in support of this, because of course we are, but I just want to make sure you’re prepared. I’m afraid it might get...worse, before it gets better.”

“You know me, always prepared,” said Harry, as Ron rolled his eyes.

“Listen, I can keep the Ministry under control, but I can’t do anything about the press.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” said Harry, smiling. “I never ask either of you to do anything.”

“But look where you’d be without us,” said Ron. “Still out camping in the middle of nowhere, beard down to your knees, probably a virgin.” Harry gave a weak laugh.

“Ronald….”

“You should look up Viktor Krum, I hear he’s still single,” said Ron, reaching down to squeeze Hermione’s shoulder. Hermione leaned into Ron and groaned.

Harry cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he said, looking at both Ron and Hermione. “For...yeah. You know.” Ron was touched, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was being thanked for.

“Don’t mention it, Harry, just remember us when you’re rich and famous,” said Ron. Hermione swatted his arm in an attempt to distract from the fact that she was tearing up.

Harry was looking at the discarded Prophet article on the coffee table. “What’s eating you?” Ron asked. 

“I don’t like what she said about Ginny,” said Harry. “I mean, obviously, she’s barking, but...it’s not a nice thing to imply.”

“She’s baiting her,” said Hermione. “Ginny’s smart enough not to take the bait.”

Ron said nothing. The truth was, he thought Ginny could have said she was happy for them. He didn’t know what it was like to have your marriage end, but he knew his sister could be unnecessarily withholding during her more vulnerable moments. It ran in the family.

“She might not actually like me with Draco. I mean, she was quite supportive generally, but now…I don’t know. I don’t think she expected this.” Harry chewed his lip.

“Well, you can’t live your life according to other people’s expectations,” said Ron. Hermione and Harry stared at him. Harry gave a small cough. “Which I know from experience! She’ll come around, Harry.”

“I don’t want to lose her,” said Harry. Hermione stood and hugged him, draping her arms around him from behind. She whispered something to him, and Harry nodded. This happened sometimes, because there were things she could do for Harry that Ron couldn’t. Hermione always knew the right words. Harry smiled at Ron, and Ron felt a swell of affection.

“Now is the time, if the three of us ever wanted to make a go of it—” Ron started

“_ Ron _! What exactly, would Harry and I get out of that? Harry’s not even interested in women.”

“Maybe for you, Hermione,” said Harry. He winked. Hermione looked a bit flustered as she removed her hands from his neck.

“Oi! What happened to ‘I love her like a sister?’” Ron snapped. 

“I’m only calling your bluff,” said Harry, laughing. “A three way with the two most jealous people I’ve ever met isn’t on my list, mate.”

“I want to know why no one’s pointed out how evolved I am for suggesting it,” said Ron.

“You sort of undermined yourself at the end,” Harry pointed out. 

“Not that anyone’s asked, but I was never interested,” said Hermione. “I’ll leave all that to Rose.”

Harry checked his watch, then leaned forward and ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t be nervous.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” said Hermione, firmly. “It’s like any other Sunday.”

“I wish Bill and Fleur were coming,” said Harry. “Their letter was nice, I don’t know what to expect from the others. George did send back a Howler, which…” He trailed off and looked at Ron. 

“...Is him saying he loves you, yeah,” said Ron. “Silence is what you want to worry about.” (Silence, or politeness. He was being very polite to Ron, these days.)

“It feels like I’m being selfish,” said Harry. His brow furrowed. 

“”But you’re happy,” said Hermione. Harry nodded. “That’s all anyone cares about, really.”

“Plus, we forgave Percy,” Ron pointed out. “That was much harder. People do actually want you around.” Harry tried to smile but the crease in his forehead remained where it was. 

Hermione sighed. “Harry, try not to feel guilty. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Not lately,” said Harry. “But I spent so long forcing my family into…”

“Fuck that,” Ron said sharply, before Hermione could open her mouth. “Nobody forces Ginny into anything, for starters. Ending your marriage is just life, Harry. It’s just what happened. You aren’t special."

Hermione shot Ron a warning look. He knew he was on thin ice, but this was important. “Mate, people fall out of love all the time, I expect. I mean, isn’t it part of getting old?” He felt Hermione stiffen next to him. 

“Right,” said Harry. “But this isn’t like that. I mean, I didn’t know I was…”

“I didn’t know I’d been a decent auror until I’d already quit,” said Ron. “Hermione didn’t know she was pregnant with Hugo until after that massive New Year’s Eve session with Rolf’s juniper whatsit. Sometimes it takes….it takes a…”

“Catalyst,” said Hermione. She was softening, a bit.

“Sure,” said Ron. “Maybe it’s weird your problems got so ordinary after a lifetime of the opposite. But maybe it’s good weird.” He cleared his throat. “And it doesn’t all fall on your shoulders.”

“What’s _ up _ with you?” Harry asked. His eyebrows had disappeared under his hair. Ron felt his ears get hot. “Keep it up, whatever it is,” Harry said. He reached over to thump Ron gently on the arm. Hermione beamed.

“He’s been thinking,” said Hermione proudly. “A bit late in life to learn the art of it---”

“This from the woman who only discovered whiskey about five years ago---”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t spend my twenties on a bender, Ron!”

“So the thing is,” said Harry, over them both, “I’ve taken a leave of absence.” He let out a rush of air through his mouth before closing it. The exhale seemed to hold a great deal of weight, or perhaps it was emotion.

“You might have led with that,” said Hermione finally. 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t have used the Auror example, had I known,” said Ron.

Harry was rubbing his face again. “It was my choice, I swear.” Ron put a warning hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Nothing to do with the split. I mean, that was part of it, but it’s more than that.” He was peering anxiously at Hermione. Ron didn’t blame him.

But Hermione gave Harry a smile. “I understand.”

“I mean, it’s an indefinite leave,” Harry added.

“We could all use one,” said Hermione. “You can take the time to figure out what’s next.”

“I’ll know what’s next when I see it,” said Harry. Hermione nodded thoughtfully.

Harry and Hermione shared something that separated them from Ron. Ron was partially responsible for it, because he’d run out on them, but they’d have discovered it anyway. It was, basically, whatever quality the two of them had that made them dig their heels in against the relentlessness of life. They would rise to a challenge for its own sake. Ron was not that way.

He couldn’t always see things through, and the shop was the last straw. Rosie and Hugo made it easy to work alongside George, to be devoted to his family. Parenting was all heart, and instinct, and a bit of strategy. He succeeded at it, thank Merlin. He couldn’t think what his purpose would be, otherwise.

His children growing up and going off to school had stirred up troubling emotions. The shop felt cramped and garish, and Fred was suddenly everywhere. It made him feel guilty. He couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted anymore.

But now, he had made something new, and he wanted to keep going. It was working. He was changing. Harry and Hermione were looking at him with near-identical expressions, because they saw it too. He was seventeen for a second, coming back to them.

“Oi!” said Harry. “I said, what made you come up with all this, anyway?” He gestured at the box of cartridges in the living room, which would soon get moved to the shop.

“Which?” 

“Just...all of it,” said Harry. “I don’t think I really asked."

“The deluminator,” said Ron promptly. “I swear it was Dumbledore’s plan the whole time, you know what he was like.”

Harry and Hermione both laughed. “Well, but the custom strains, though,” said Hermione, scrunching her nose up at him. “How did you get the idea for so many?”

“I just thought about what would be...helpful,” said Ron. He shrugged. “I’m sure anyone with time on their hands could have done the same.” He was fishing, a little.

Harry and Hermione now wore identical expressions of exasperation, for the first time in years.

“Oh, shut up Ron,” said Harry, gently. 

“You’re the only one who turns helpfulness into magic, love,” said Hermione. She slung her arm through his. “We should get going.”

“Last one there has to shag Malfoy,” said Ron, grinning down at Harry. It was something he’d said when they were Aurors and headed out on patrol. “Or _ be _ shagged by—” there was a popping sound as Hermione Disapparated on the spot. “Well, we know Hermione’s not keen.”

Harry shook his head and tried to suppress his smile. “Please, Ron. It is possible to switch.” And then he was gone, leaving Ron to follow.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note: “It Never Stops” is by Bad Books.


	5. The Feeling of Audible Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Well, people change,' said Draco. 
> 
> "'No, they just reveal themselves,' said Ginny."
> 
> Two dinners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this was an embarrassment of a wait but THANK YOU all so much for hanging in there. i deleted the 5th non-chapter update and realized that it ALSO accidentally deleted some nice comments you left there which is my b!!! i really appreciate them, and, again, thank you for waiting. i promise part 6 will not take 4 months! this chapter finally reveals a bunch of the tagged pairings and characters who haven't made an appearance yet, though there are still some more character introductions in part 7. 
> 
> quick content note: Arthur has something like early onset. It’s in the first half of this chapter, not the second. There's some very brief political-ish talk because I did want to think about what poor Hermione would be dealing with in 2023. It’s a little vague on purpose because it’s Ron’s POV, but hopefully it makes sense. 
> 
> thanks for the edits leoandsnake!

While his body shuddered into place, Ron’s good mood was sucked out of him. The Burrow had grown in size, adult Weasley children surreptitiously adding more space as needed, but with a dwindling amount of visitors, the house lacked its old warmth. It was the nature of disease. People suddenly found excuses to make themselves scarce.

Draco would understand, Ron thought, shuffling next to Hermione down the Burrow’s overgrown path. Daphne Greengrass was the only one who maintained a relationship with Draco, and Ron knew from Harry’s former tirades against the Malfoy social circle that there had been plenty of regular players before Astoria got sick. 

Hermione squeezed his hand, then released it. Her parents were enjoying their retirement and memories quite intact, against all odds. Her magic was that fucking good. (And her genes. Weasleys aged poorly.) 

Harry was a pace ahead of them, wringing his hands at the doorstep like a child, but wearing a grave expression that Dumbledore would have envied. Ron tried to pour a lot of reassurance into his grip on Harry’s shoulder.

When their kids were young, or home for the summer, the door flung open instantly. It might be that a gaggle of cousins sought to inflict mayhem on new visitors, or a sullen teen was ordered to make themselves useful. Now people let themselves in. The chatter inside had dulled to a respectable level. 

Ron was aware that his heart was thudding too violently in his chest for a man of his age and activity level, but there was nothing for it. He had to ride out the feeling.

“I forgot the fucking…” There was a loaf of bread on the kitchen counter. Ron was experimenting with baking and had promised to bring it. 

“Bread,” said Hermione, from his other side. She gestured to her handbag, where the loaf was sticking out. “And watch your language, love!”

“I’m getting it out of my system, you fucking lifesaver,” said Ron. 

“Let’s all try and relax,” said Harry, who was white as a sheet. Hermione shot Ron a glance that Ron understood to mean, _ Remember what I said about helpfulness? Now would be the time. _Harry’s hand hovered over the door, poised to knock, and Ron swatted it away.

“Honestly!” said Hermione, throwing the door open and marching in. Harry was not moving, so Ron used Harry’s shoulder to shove them both inside. He kept his hand there, anchoring himself as much as Harry.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit...unusually affectionate?” Harry had one asked Ron, a few days before Ron’s sixteenth birthday. They were lounging in the Gryffindor common room, with Ron’s arm grazing Harry’s back across the sofa. Hermione had told McGonagall Ron was ill as a birthday present, so he’d gotten the night off from Prefect duties.

“Oh, I’ll stop,” said Ron, “If it bothers you.” He passed the bottle of firewhiskey over to Harry.

“Not at all,” said Harry. “It just doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m not sure why.” But Ron knew why, and the thought made him sad.

“D’you know,” said Ron, “Fred used to love a cuddle, when we were really small. Until I was about five, I want to say. He’d pick me up and kiss me all the time, even if he was torturing me.”

“Not Fred!” said Harry.

“Well, he wouldn’t admit it now,” said Ron. “And one day Charlie, or Bill, maybe, told him it wasn’t manly, so that put a stop to it.”

“I always thought with brothers it was fighting.”

“That too,” said Ron, punching Harry on the shoulder. He’d resolved to be as affectionate with Harry as he liked until they were ancient and had no control over their limbs.

His mum’s arrival in the entryway forced Ron to release Harry and abandon his nostalgia. He hugged Molly, and her hand lingered accusingly on his ribcage.

“Ron’s lost too much weight,” she informed Hermione. Hermione kissed Molly’s forehead and rolled her eyes at Ron when Molly’s back was turned to fuss (Was it Ron’s imagination or was she a bit stiff?) over Harry.

“I keep telling Hermione to remove the muzzle she’s placed round his mouth to stop him eating, but nobody listens to me,” said Ginny, who had mercifully appeared beside Hermione to peck her on the cheek. “You look better, actually,” she continued, appraising her brother. “A lot better.”

“Next time tell me how rubbish I look before the fact!” said Ron. Ginny winked.

Harry ran his fingers through his hair while his other hand brushed invisible lint off his sweater. Ron tried to make eye contact with his sister but saw that it wasn’t needed. She marched over to Harry and delivered a bone-crushing embrace, whispering something in his ear. 

Harry relaxed instantly, shaking his head at her. _ Not your fault, _ he mouthed. Ginny whispered something else to Harry, who laughed and said, “Fine.”

Fearing his mum would wonder aloud, for the umpteenth time, why Harry and Ginny couldn’t have just made an “arrangement” work, like her late brother Fabian had done, seeing as how there was still so much love there, and so on, Ron made a show of presenting her with the bread and steering her into the kitchen.

Arthur was propped up in a chair with a few pillows, his hair disheveled. He’d once taken great pride in arranging the few strands he had left, but these days he went uncombed and stayed in his bathrobe. He was trying to listen politely to Angelina’s story, eyes clouded over, while a stoic George looked on.

Arthur lit up at the sight of Hermione, who was his favorite daughter-in-law. When he’d had all his mental faculties he used to tell her about a hundred times an afternoon that every minister of magic should be muggleborn. 

(Last week he asked Hermione whether she and Ron were planning on having children. He’d begun introducing himself to Audrey and Angelina. Audrey, who was a healer, said “with all luck” he’d continue to recognize his immediate family for the better part of the year. It was, she said, impossible to know for sure how the disease would progress.

“Fantastic, don’t know what we’re all so upset about, then,” George had snapped. Percy opened his mouth and stood, and they likely would have come to blows, save for the jelly-leg jinx Ginny directed at both brothers from under the table.)

“Oh, Ron, you brought Hermione! What a nice surprise,” said Arthur.

George’s mouth turned up slightly at the corner. “Yeah, Ron, you should invite her more often.”

“As long as you’ll have me,” said Hermione. She sat next to Angelina, taking Arthur’s hand. 

“Two gorgeous women beside me, I must be the luckiest man in the world!” Arthur proclaimed. 

“Hmmph,” said Molly, coming up behind Ron, but Ron could tell she was relieved. This sort of old-man flirting had been a habit of Arthur’s before his diagnosis. 

The kitchen was too large for six people, with Percy and Audrey having left earlier in the day so they could catch another “unmissable” lecture from some revolutionary healer (_ Funny, _George had said to Ron, displaying rare camaraderie, _ how they’ve started to fall on Sunday evenings_), and Bill and Fleur in France for the month or however long it would be this time, and Harry and Ginny lingering in the other room establishing their surreal new friendship.

“Where’s--” Ron began.

“Charlie’s running late, but he’s coming,” said Molly. Her face softened at Hermione and Arthur. Molly had never understood Hermione Granger. She would tell anyone within earshot she was proud of Hermione’s accomplishments, obviously, too good for Ron, and have you met their genius children, but her tone gave her away: defensive, fighting imaginary detractors. Arthur’s illness brought Hermione and Molly closer, the dynamic reminiscent of when Fred died and Hermione turned up with casseroles.

Seeing Hermione dote on Arthur should probably make Ron fall more in love with her, come to think of it, but that wasn’t how they worked. Loving Hermione was an immutable trait, akin to being very tall. The miracle was that they’d_ both _been born that way, each too much of one thing to feel right without the other. 

“Ron, you’re quiet,” observed Angelina, smiling up at him. 

“Lucky for you all,” said Ron. He returned the smile, a sudden ache in his jaw. What had the Weasleys done to deserve this latest grief shitstorm? He wondered, not for the first time, if Harry might be the cause. If the orphan Ron saddled his family with, whom they’d all subsequently claimed as theirs, unwittingly sewed destruction in his wake.

Harry was worth it, though, no matter how much admitting so made Ron feel cruel and insular. Fred’s death was unspeakable, Arthur’s illness unfathomable, but an intact Harry trumped nearly everything.

The man who defeated death joined them in the kitchen with his ex-wife in tow. 

“What’s up?” said George, clapping Harry on the back so forcefully Harry almost collided with a chair. “You dirty little--”

“George!” said Angelina.

“Malfoy buggerer is all I was going to say!” said George. “It explains why you’ve been ignoring my owls about setting you up with...Marcus, I want to say. Or Martin? He’s in all the time, very fit--”

“Responded to your Howler, though, didn’t I?” said Harry, grinning. “Cheers.” Ron could read the relief on his face. George’s moral compass was sound, and the more he teased a person, the more it was understood by the rest of the family to be gentle with them. (He’d ribbed Ron relentlessly for weeks when he quit being an Auror, then slipped him the shop keys one evening with a raised eyebrow.)

“I caught him with the envelope, but he was too fast for me to stop it,” said Angelina. “Roxanne is thrilled, by the way. She’s such a romantic.”

“And is Malfoy a roma--” George began, but was interrupted by a popping sound.

“Thank Merlin, it’s Charlie!” said Ginny. 

Charlie’s stride was confident. He worked a room in the manner of someone who didn’t care what the room thought of him. For Ron, the mere act of walking around was laden with the possibility of embarrassment or error. None of his siblings seemed to share this trait.

Having given Molly a perfunctory kiss, Charlie made a beeline straight for Harry. Everyone busied themselves pretending not to notice--Hermione, for example, appeared to be making steady eye contact with Arthur, but her gaze flickered periodically toward Charlie. Ginny waved her wand at the cabinets and started stacking plates midair, deceptively occupied. George, as always, stared openly.

“Harry,” Charlie said, “I think it’s time you and I come clean.”

The plates were frozen in place. George uncrossed his arms.

“About us,” continued Charlie. “With the news about you and Malfoy, I’d like to know where we stand.”

Angelina’s mouth hung open. The plates hit the table so forcefully Hermione jumped and Arthur winced. “Bullshit!” Ginny yelled. “Oh, sorry Mum!” Molly tutted from her vantage point in the entryway. Her hand was at her chest.

“He’s taking the mickey,” said George. “Obviously.”

“No, he’s not,” said Harry, sliding an arm around Charlie. “Babe, you know how I feel about you. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Harry, you’re awful at this.”

“If you lot were less inclined to eavesdrop…” said Charlie. 

“He’s got a point,” said Ron. “Will you all stop treating this like the bloody world cup so they can have a bit of space?”

“Unfortunately, Ron’s right,” said Hermione. “Angelina, did you want to see pictures of Rose’s--”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” said Angelina, hurriedly. “George would love nothing more, as well.” She stood and followed Hermione to the living room, half-dragging George behind her.

“Gin, help me with the bread,” said Ron. 

“Help yourself with the bread,” Ginny snapped. She had materialized a six pack from somewhere and floated it behind her out the back door to the garden. Ron followed.

Ginny flicked the cap off a beer with the tip of her wand and stood looking out at whatever. The view was the same as it had always been, occasional gnome creeping around the garden, the distant pond shimmering against the sunset. Sometimes it pained Ron to watch his siblings get visibly older--it took them further away from Fred--but in this moment his sister was lovely, the lines on her face rendering her all the more vital. The orange light might have clashed with her hair (still bright, while Ron’s grew duller), but it didn’t.

“You seem good,” Ron offered, after a beat. 

Ginny’s mouth twitched. She motioned to the six-pack, offering Ron one with a gesture.

“Nah, have two, say one was me. Say both were me,” said Ron. 

She laughed. “Always falling on your sword.” 

“Hardly.”

“Pfft.” She finished the first beer, tilting her head back lightly and getting to work on the second. Ginny never turned anything down. It didn’t matter whether it was a dare or an offer. She always took it. Harry was the same, which was probably what had made them last so long in the first place. 

As if reading his mind, Ginny said, “You’ve been rather...diplomatic, about all this. Haven’t you.”

“What’s my alternative?”

“It’s just unusual,” said Ginny. She took a swig. “And I am good, as it happens. That’s what’s weird.”

“It’s weird that you’re good?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, Ron, but people tend to have a hard time after a divorce, particularly if that person has been in your family since you were a small child.”

“Right, but….it’s nice you’re happy, isn’t it?” He winced, wondering if accusing her of being happy was a step too far, but Ginny merely looked thoughtful. 

“I am happy. I just feel like I’m supposed to...I don’t know...be the opposite.”

“I’ve noticed,” said Ron. Her prickliness had taken on an affected, almost inauthentic quality. “I’m not blaming you, obviously. I’d cut holes in all the modern paintings in Harry’s stupid new flat, if it were me.”

“It is stupid, isn’t it!”

“He’s never had any taste. And that’s coming from me.”

“Maybe Draco will fuck some taste into him,” Ginny said, with a tone Ron couldn’t parse. But she winked. “I’d say I’ve given Charlie enough time to fawn all over his new pet project, haven’t you?’

“Quite,” said Ron. 

Ginny wrinkled her nose at him. “You’ve waited long enough to grow up, then. Welcome.” He wanted to say something wise, but all he could think to do was pinch the bridge of her nose, like he’d done when they were children, and let her finish her beer in peace.

“Where’s Gin?” Charlie asked, when Ron re-entered the kitchen to find the rest of the family seated for dinner.

“Poland,” said Ron, finding a place next to Hermione. Someone had gotten the bread out after all. “Just nipped off to meet a friend, she’ll be back in a minute.”

“Not with the current state of things, she won’t,” said Angelina sharply. Hermione’s face fell and Angelina looked guilty. “Hermione--I didn’t mean--it’s not your fault. You were just so close…”

“You don’t have to tell Hermione that,” said George softly.

“I know,” said Angelina. “I only--”

“It’s all right,” said Hermione. “We were indeed close to a functional international Floo Network again. It’s probably maddening to watch. Ireland’s voted yes but they want little to do with us now they’ve got their ministry under the Magic Taoiseach, and who can blame them, honestly. The muggle PM is unhinged after the Brexit fallout, which doesn’t help.” Harry shot her a sympathetic smile from across the table.

“You’re doing what you can,” Angelina supplied. “I bet it’s lonely at the top.”

“Not lonely so much as exasperating,” said Hermione, laying a hand on Ron’s arm. “The new legislation has a decent shot at passing.”

“That’s what I’ve heard!” said Charlie. He coughed. “Romania’s for it, not that anyone’s clamoring for their minister’s support. Twelve of them in the government last I checked, and that’s not an exaggeration.” 

“Oh, we’ll take it,” said Hermione. 

Ginny slipped back into the kitchen and squeezed in next to George. “How was Poland?” he asked.

“Try the beer,” said Ginny. 

“Not too much beer, Ginevra,” said Arthur, suddenly. “You’re barely of age.” Molly’s mouth tightened and Ron noticed, for the first time, how little food was on her plate. 

“Skin routine is working, then,” said Ginny. “Sure, Dad.”

Grateful for his sister’s breeziness, Ron stuffed a hunk of bread in his mouth for something to occupy it.

“You’re still doing carbs,” Angelina observed. 

Ron swallowed with some effort, and wiped his mouth. “I never stopped.”

“But, then…” Angelina gestured vaguely. “What...er...did you stop?”

The rest of the table seemed keen on getting an answer, his mum especially, who would likely try to slip in at least one lecture about how his generation was far too obsessed with their weight before the night was over.

“I’m mostly off the drink,” said Ron, which wasn’t exactly a lie, though he hadn’t really cut back on alcohol since he’d taken early morning appointments._ I’ve lost a lot of weight because I temporarily lost interest in food, and life, basically, _would have been bleak, even for his family. Hermione squeezed his knee under the table.

“So it does work. How annoying,” said Ginny. 

For a brief moment Ron allowed himself to hope the rest of the night would pass with these small conversations about politics or the kids or what other diets people were trying, that he’d grow bored, perhaps, at Angelina’s complicated explanations for the exchange rate of the galleon.

Instead, Arthur looked around the table in increased distress, jutting out his lower jaw and making a small fist at the table. 

“Arthur, dear?” Molly asked.

“Where’s Fred?” Arthur demanded, and Ron’s stomach hit the floor.

He could hear his heart beating somewhere in his throat and closed his eyes, too cowardly to face his family, grasping for Hermione’s hand and letting it close around his own, cool as ever. She was like an ice box. It kept Ron from feeling like he’d explode.

He opened his eyes to stare down at his plate, the untouched meat and potatoes congealing on the brown surface. The silence was awful, Hermione’s breath catching beside him while the weight of grief hung over the table like a spectre, in a cloud as tangible as London fog. His mother began to sniffle horribly. Ron could not face George.

“I want to go home,” said Arthur, quietly. Ron could not think of what this might mean, but he knew he wasn’t capable of saying the right thing. He couldn’t open his mouth to try, though something was screaming at him to step the fuck up.

It was Harry who found the words. “Arthur,” he said. “How about a nice lie down on the couch?”

“Yes,” said Arthur, as though the rest of the family were idiots for not asking. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you, Harry.” Harry stood slowly, Ron catching the way Harry had to steady his shaking hand on the table, but he was capable as he pulled Arthur to his feet, ushering him over to the living room couch and muttering that he couldn’t wait to show him Daisy Dursley’s latest electronic whatsit. Arthur’s eyes closed as Harry chatted to him aimlessly, his breathing growing even.

“You certainly have the touch with my husband,” Molly said when Harry returned to the table, so icily that Hermione gasped.

“Mum!” Said Ginny, and Ron, together. George curled and uncurled his fists at the table, his eyes somewhere else, his shoulder propped up against Angelina.

Harry held up his hand. “I’m sure it seems to Molly that I’ve got a poor sense of boundaries, lately.”

“That was still out of order,” said Charlie sharply to Molly, who was blinking back tears.

“It was,” she agreed tonelessly. “I got your letter, Harry, and it was so nice of you to write but I’m supposed to act like this is all fine when I don’t understand it, any of it. My husband is not well. I’m not sure if anyone’s noticed.”

“We have,” said Angelina. “That’s why we’re here, Molly. We want to help.”

“I’m the one who should help. He’s my husband.”

“He’s not the postman to us, Mum,” said George. “He’s going to slip up and ask tragic shit from time to time, isn’t he? That’s the least of it. Mum, you need help round the house, with Dad, there’s no getting around it. It’s not an insult.”

“You spent decades keeping it together,” added Charlie.

“You all have lives,” Molly started. “Jobs and children of your own.”

“Er...not me,” said Harry. “Well, children, yeah. A life...debatable. I’m actually on leave from work. I was going to offer quietly. I didn’t mean to derail dinner. I just thought. Well. I can come round. As often as you need. But if you don’t want--”

Molly’s eyes widened. She looked at Harry, properly this time. “Harry, that’s too--how are you going to make a living?”

“I’ve made quite enough of a living, I think it’s safe to say.” Harry didn’t often bring up his money, either inherited or earned, but the older they’d grown the less embarrassed he was to invoke it when necessary. 

“Take the offer, Mum,” said Ginny. “Please. I’ll be upset if you don’t.”

Molly’s head swiveled from Harry to Ginny. “Did the two of you decide this behind my back?” Ron was privately wondering the same thing.

“Yeah,” said Ginny, unabashedly. “Because it’s a good idea.”

“I don’t understand your relationship,” said Molly.

“Oh, no one does,” said George, cheerfully. “Let’s just be happy Ginny’s not hexing him under the table and that they’re the most mature of the lot of us, shall we?”

“And stop derailing, Mum,” Ginny added. “You see Dad with Harry. It’s better than sending someone from St. Mungo’s, and you know that’s what Perce and Audrey will insist on if we don’t do this.”

“Please,” Harry added. “Please let me do this for you.”

Molly’s shoulders sagged in a way Ron had only seen a few times before, probably because she’d lost so few battles. “But I still don’t understand_ why, _Harry.”

“Because I love you, and I want to,” Harry said. His eyes were shining, as were Ron’s. Hermione was hiding her tears behind a napkin. Even George cleared his throat.

Molly nodded and took both of Harry’s hands. “Oh, Harry…I’m old, and, well, I don’t always--” 

“It’s alright, Molly,” said Harry. “I know I’m still your favorite son.” He smiled crookedly, and Molly gripped his hands more tightly.

“You never gave me any trouble.” At the site of them, the unabashed fondness in Harry’s eyes, it was harder to remember any tension the room had once held, and easier to forget about Arthur’s outbursts or the empty chairs. 

You had to respect Harry and Molly’s bond, because it was born out of choice, and they both seemed to relish choosing it again and again.

“D’you hear this?” George demanded, rounding on his sister. “_ Harry _never gave Mum any trouble!”

“Bullshitting hippogriffs!” said Ginny, unscrewing a beer with her bare hand. “Sorry Mum, I mean...complete hogwash! He didn’t even _ graduate, _honestly!”

“Well, would we call the family legacy there pristine, babes?” said Angelina. She draped her arm around the back of George’s chair, and winked at Hermione, who smiled back nervously. (Hermione was a little afraid of Angelina, which had given Ron a very interesting series of dreams several summers ago.)

“Is someone going to help me with the dishes,” Molly said primly, letting go of Harry at last and waving her wand at the empty plates that floated overhead. 

“I will,” said Hermione, to several raised eyebrows and a pointed cough from Ginny.

“That’s helpful of you,” said Ron. 

“I’m helpful!” Hermione retorted.

Ron stood up and rested his hand on the small of her back. “You work the longest hours of anyone in this family--”

“Blow it out your arse,” said Charlie. “No offense, Hermione, love.”

“I don’t recall raising all of you in a barn!” snapped Molly. “Hermione, dear, Ron is right, you work too hard, Merlin knows what he does all day---”

“I’ve got the dishes, Mum,” said Ron, firmly, taking up the floating pile and starting for the kitchen. “Ginny, talk some sense into my wife.”

“Feminism at work, Minister,” said Ginny. She tossed Hermione a beer, as well Angelina, who’d been holding up a finger. George looked expectantly at his sister, who ignored him. “If Ron doesn’t do it, Mum won’t throw him his parade, and then where will all be?”

Ron turned up the radio to sing along with his mother.

***

_ Draco, _

_ I was not surprised by your relationship with Harry. However, your friendship with my husband is rather unexpected. I thought we might _ <strike>_ re _</strike> _ get to know one another outside of my unfinished basement. Please join us for dinner Friday next, by way of the front door. _

_ Harry already said yes for you both, but I still wanted to ask you directly. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Hermione _

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with the manor,” Draco said, watching Harry take approximately a century to lace his trainers. 

“You should sell it,” said Harry. “Will you stop pacing! I told you we’re fine, Ron and Hermione send you to the corner shop if you’re too punctual anyway.”

“Yes, it’s the time I’m worried about. Nothing else,” said Draco, giving up and sitting at one of the lumbar-destroying kitchen stools. “Who on earth would buy it? It’s an inheritance. I think I’m the first Malfoy who doesn’t want it.”

“Some rich bastard, I expect,” said Harry, missing the irony. He frowned down at himself. “Should I have gone with the brown after all?”

“I don’t wear _ denim _, Harry, but if I were forced to do, then yeah, the oxfords.”

Harry rolled his eyes and summoned his alternative pair of shoes. (He only had three pairs, total, for reasons beyond Draco’s grasp.) “Maybe I don’t take my fashion cues from vampires.”

“Handsome vampires,” said Draco.

“Hmm,” said Harry. “We used to wonder--”

“I know. Ron told me,” Draco interrupted. “I have a distant cousin who is afflicted with the condition, as it so happens. Stop laughing! Do...you really think someone would buy it? You’re not just--"

“I want you to be rid of it as much as you want to be rid of it, but yeah, I do think you’d get a few buyers,” said Harry. “I don’t think you’d walk away with an outrageous profit, but you’d do more than break even. People love creepy old shit.”

“Cheers,” said Draco. At last, Harry was grabbing their jackets from the coat rack. He tossed Draco’s over unceremoniously.

“This is not a coat you chuck, Potter. Honestly.” Draco levitated Harry’s discarded shoes back into the bedroom, feeling a sense of solidarity with Ginny Weasley for having to endure decades of Harry’s recklessness. 

“Worth seeing your face,” said Harry. “Are you coming?” 

“For fuck’s sake,” snapped Draco, grabbing Harry’s hand and marching them out the door.

Ron and Hermione’s home was in central London. There was no official public housing for the minister since Shacklebolt’s tenure in the early aughts, where he’d pointed out the run-down looking mansion Fudge had occupied was hardly suitable for anyone with, say, young children. 

Having only ever come in through the back, Draco had his first proper view. Not quite an estate but too large to call a house, painted white with a respectable gold trim, the Weasley-Granger house was protected by a few enchantments. 

Harry didn’t knock, which Draco should have predicted would happen. He opened the door and called out, “It’s us!” Draco’s stomach fluttered. 

Ron emerged in what was clearly a new black v-neck. He’d paired it with the kind of nondescript tan slacks Draco had always steered clear of, but it wasn’t a bad look. At least they fit. The sight of him was deeply reassuring. 

“Hey,” said Ron, face falling slightly, “I’m working on dinner. I hate to ask, but--”

“You need my help,” Harry finished, feigning exasperation. “You may as well see the kitchen, Draco.”

“Hermione’s still--well, you know how women are. Oh, shit, sorry,” said Ron.

“We’ve met a few women in our time, Ron,” said Draco, patting his arm. Harry laughed. 

The kitchen was one of the nicest Draco had been in, spacious and airy, with one of those floating islands where people were meant to sit with tea or coffee, though generally those who could afford kitchens like this were not the idle rich. Old money kitchens were ornate, but cramped, built with the understanding that a house-elf would do the cooking.

Ron directed Harry to a pot simmering on the stove. “I’ve got dessert sorted--”

“Obviously,” said Harry, who’d told Draco several hundred times that Ron turned out to be the best baker he’d ever encountered. “What’s up with the curry?”

“Needs something, but I can’t think of what. It’s just...I was going for mild, Merlin knows what Ginny’s new boyfriend eats, but something’s off.”

Harry approached the stove and sniffed. “More ginger,” he said. “You’ve gone rogue with the tumeric.”

“I have,” said Ron. He began rifling through the cabinets but Harry sighed and rolled up his sleeves, locating a spoon from a nearby door. “Harry, don’t--”

“Shut up, Ron,” said Harry happily, waving Ron’s hand away.

Hermione found them there, her hair in several textured plaits, wearing a smart, collared dress that suited her figure. Draco had thought her haltingly pretty at Hogwarts. In her forties, she was self-assured and handsome. “Sorry,” she lied.

“You look amazing!” said Harry, peering at her over his shoulder.. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in green.”

“Well,” said Hermione. “It seemed like the time.” 

Draco crossed and offered his hand. “Great dress, really." He produced the bouquet of peonies from behind his back, which he’d charmed into a collapsible vase. “They’re already in water. I hate when people…” he trailed off.

“That’s thoughtful,” said Hermione, taking his outstretched hand and the flowers with her other. She was neither affable nor openly hostile, as Ron first was.

“Isn’t it!” said Ron loudly. He added, more quietly, “Does anyone know who Ginny’s bringing?”

“Why are you so obsessed with your sister’s dinner date, love?”

“Because she said it’s a _ surprise._ You know what her surprises are like. She lives for chaos. Bet it’s someone we know.” 

“Well, it can’t be someone from school,” Draco offered. “Not in recent years, anyway. Almost all accounted for.”

“True,” said Ron. A silence descended on the group, somewhere between oppressive and benign. Harry was still working the stove. He brought the spoon to his lips and made a satisfied noise, then flicked his wand to turn the heat low. 

“This kitchen,” said Draco. “It’s incredible. The whole house, honestly.”

“Well, so you’re finally seeing it,” said Hermione. 

The doorbell rang. Ron and Hermione both looked taken aback. 

“Probably the boyfriend,” Ron offered. Catching sight of Draco’s pursed lips, he added, “We’re not really a doorbell family.”

“We don’t know that he’s her boyfriend,” said Hermione.

“Her _ special _ friend, then,” said Ron, rolling his eyes at Draco. “Guess I’ll get it.” Hermione muttered something under her breath and went after him. Draco lingered where he was, unsure whether it was more polite to wait in the kitchen with Harry or join Ron and Hermione at the door. He settled on the non-option of keeping his front torso angled towards the front door while his back half was in the kitchen with Harry. He felt like a maimed centaur.

“Er...don’t do that,” said Harry. He was still bent over the curry. “Just sit down, it’s fine. Ron and Hermione aren’t used to offering people seats.”

“Do they stand on any ceremony at all?” snapped Draco, before a sound came from Ron that was not unlike the scream Scorpius had made after he’d drawn his first breath.

Harry turned from the curry at last. His eyes were brightened by an amusement that bordered on cruel, which was very unlike him. “Well, you know, Ron’s a bit dramatic.”

“But--”

Ron burst into the kitchen, the color drained from his face, and went over to the stove instantly. What he did next was so perplexing that Draco would never be able to erase the image from his mind. Ron brushed Harry aside to grab the pan and tip a generous amount of curry directly onto his clothing and person, without any regard for the temperature, mess, or general social taboo. Draco gasped. Harry snorted.

“I’ve spilled curry,” said Ron, wildly. 

“Mate…” Harry went to put a hand on Ron’s shoulder, but Ron shrugged it off. Harry flipped him off with one hand and cast a cooling charm with the other. 

“Draco,” said Ron. “Please will you come upstairs with me and... get a different shirt... with me. For the curry. Which I have spilled.”

Draco looked at Harry for backup, who was no longer amused. His eyebrows knit briefly into what might have been jealousy. But he closed his eyes, and his brow grew smooth. He seemed to be chuckling at himself when he opened them. “You heard the man,” said Harry. “Help him pick out a different shirt.” 

“I don’t--” Draco began, but Ron’s arm was on his, before he could finish the sentence, and he realized that he was being Apparated directly into Ron’s bedroom. 

“What the actual fuck?” Draco asked.

Ron’s color was coming back too quickly, and his face was now almost purple. “Sorry,” he managed. “I...Krum. Do you remember Viktor Krum?” 

Draco did remember Viktor Krum. Last he’d heard, Krum was retired and had a sponsorship deal with Firebolt XV. He wondered what Ron’s problem with Krum as Ginny’s date was, and why Ginny would make such a choice, and took stock of the bedroom. Hermione’s preference for gold extended to furniture and accent pillows. The room was pleasantly dated, reflecting a mid-century modern style that had been popular in the late teens. 

Ron was fishing around in his nightstand for the deluminator. He took the longest puff Draco had seen anyone manage in one go, and extended it to Draco, who took a much smaller hit. 

Ron then began peeling off his pants and shirt, like it was the most normal thing in the world to do in front of Draco. He didn’t have Harry’s muscle tone but he’d held on to enough, only the barest hint of a gut around his midsection, which was easy to overlook with the trail of copper hair beneath it, and the freckles dotting his chest and thighs.

Draco had forgotten that this was what straight men were like. He was aware of an unfortunate heat reaching his cheeks. 

"Oh,” said Ron, who had turned to rifle through his drawers. “Are there, er, different rules? Should I not be doing this?” He pulled on a pair of black trousers and faced Draco shirtless, directing his wand at the stained, discarded outfit on the floor.

“You’re not trying to seduce me, I assume,” said Draco, evenly.

Ron laughed. “Listen...I’ve been better, you know? Lately. Things were really...well they’re not perfect, you know, but they’ve been--Anyway. Viktor Krum. He took Hermione to the Yule Ball! And now Ginny! It doesn’t feel._ . _.I mean, we’re all adults, I know it’s been ages, and that’s why--I can’t say anything to him, neither of them would ever forgive me. I thought, well, a distraction, clear my head, so the curry, but really it was for the vaporizer.” He ran a hand through his hair. 

Draco laughed. So _ that’s _what this was. “Hermione’s your wife, mate.” (He had never called anyone mate before in his life.) “She had your children.”

“Krum looks good,” said Ron. He took another hit.

“So do you!” snapped Draco. “I’ve just seen for myself.”

Ron smiled weakly and waved the vaporizer at Draco, who shook his head, and deposited it back into the drawer. “Sorry. I forgot. Well, I mean, not about that, I’m just used to…”

“I’m not complaining,” said Draco. “I’m wondering why--no, absolutely no maroon," he said sharply, watching Ron eye an awful jumper. “I’m just wondering why you’ve brought me up here. Of all people.”

_ Instead of Harry,_ was the unspoken line they both heard.

Ron tossed the offending sweater away. “Besides to tell you to wear the grey,” Draco added.

“Well,” said Ron. “Harry’s my best friend.”

“No!” said Draco, sarcastically.

“More than that, really,” Ron went on, ignoring this. “He’s...Well, anyway. You know. So he’s my best friend, but he doesn’t always say the right thing.” This was true. Harry wasn’t a great talker. He almost always knew what to do, but he seldom knew what to say. Ron looked away from Draco while he put on the grey shirt, adding, “You usually say the right thing.”

Draco was horrified to find his eyes stung, and was grateful for Ron’s sudden lack of interest in exhibitionism. Collecting himself, he said, “I don’t know what threat your wife’s old date poses to you Ron, but I’ll say this. Astoria had a well-connected Ministry friend when Hermione was putting her campaign together. She had widespread support from the start, I’m sure you know. Astoria’s friend had only one reservation.” (There was, in fact, no friend, but Draco didn’t want Ron to know this, as he felt Astoria would have liked him if she’d gotten to know him.)

Ron looked up sharply. “Hermione... _mentioned_ you a lot,” Draco said. “Still does, from what I hear. Not personally, exactly, more just...well, here's what my husband thinks, whether anyone's asked or not. It's amazing how persuasive she's been about her progressive agenda. It’s just that, for one, she never shuts up about Harry, which people understand, but she never shuts up about _ you _ either, which people have a harder time understanding. Not me, anymore,” he added quickly.

Ron seemed to redden from his ears through his cheekbones. “Oh,” he said. “I didn't realize."

"I thought you must have some idea of the frequency with which your name gets tossed about, but I should have known. Absolutely oblivious. And my only friend, as it happens. Fuck this insecurity and come downstairs."

"I do have the Order of Merlin, Second Class," said Ron. "In case people are wondering."

"That's the spirit," said Draco. He gripped Ron’s arm firmly and forced them both down the stairs into the kitchen.

Viktor Krum looked every inch the swarthy, former professional athlete as he languished in Ron and Hermione’s kitchen, arm draped around Ginny. Harry was wearing the determined smile of a man who was going to have a normal Friday night.

“Good of you to join us,” said Ginny.

“I spilled curry,” said Ron. Only in this very moment did he seem to realize this was not a reason for Draco to be missing as well.

“And then I wanted to see the...bathroom tiles,” Draco invented. Harry smirked and rested a hand on Draco's arm. Draco had never felt scrawnier, with Harry, Ginny, and Krum all in the same room.

“Malfoy,” said Viktor Krum. “I don’t remember if we met at Hogwarts. Forgive me.” His grip was surprisingly soft. 

“Let’s not think about Hogwarts,” said Draco. “Draco, please. It’s a pleasure.” He turned to Ginny, who nodded, but did not offer her hand.

“How’veyoubeengettingonViktor,” said Ron. He took a breath. “Can I get anyone a glass of wine.” Everyone in the kitchen nodded or made a noise of assent.

“Yes!” called Hermione, from the dining room. “Table’s set!”

Ron proffered a bottle of red and white from the living room and floated glasses over. He seemed to know instinctively to give everyone red, except Draco and Ginny. He filled his own glass with water.

“Are you sober now?” Ginny demanded.

“Fuck no,” said Ron. “Cannaburst isn’t sober, is it? I'm just drinking less.”

Draco feared Ginny would have something cutting at the ready, but instead she smiled. She was hard to read, and would remain so when they adjourned to the dining room for dinner, sometimes treating Harry with marked affection, sometimes jutting out her jaw when he spoke. Hermione and Krum were the only ones Ginny couldn’t find fault with, it seemed. Krum clearly delighted her, which was fair, as he was easygoing and said very little except to praise the food, or laugh loudly at the slightest hint of a joke. She remained wary of Draco, but in a perfunctory, non-confrontational way.

Ron's dessert was this incredibly intricate lemon tart that Draco could have eaten half of. Ron poured himself a half glass of wine as the rest of them worked on their third or fourth and said, “Well. How did you two meet,” with the general air of someone asking an elderly relative if they’d gotten that rash looked at.

“Ron!” said Harry, sounding very like Hermione. “Some of us actually want to know.”

“Not at the support group for former Death Eaters,” said Ginny.

Ron looked from Draco to Ginny, clearly pained, but it was Hermione who spoke. “I thought you hated hand-me-downs, Gin," she said, conspiratorially. 

“Just from my brothers,” said Ginny. 

“It’s only fair Ginny gets one in,” said Draco. Harry put a hand on his knee.

Ginny nodded approvingly. “Thanks. We met at a fundraiser hosted by Germany, actually, which is funny, as we both would love nothing more than to see Italy take them for the cup, but--”

“It is hard to decline charity fundraisers,” Krum finished. “Also, the Harpies and Bulgaria are out, so it vas easier.”

“The Wasps have been finished for weeks,” said Draco, unthinkingly. Ron had the right idea. Alcohol made him open his fat mouth far too much.

But Ginny looked sympathetic. “They were robbed in the semifinals, to tell you the truth. And that’s me saying this.” Draco positively lit up with relief. Ginny quirked an eyebrow, close to smiling.

Harry looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind. He drained his glass and stood. “Just getting some air,” he said. He slipped out the door, coatless. 

Draco pursed his lips. “Should I--”

“No,” said Ginny and Hermione together.

“He’s gone to brood,” said Ron. He winked at Draco. “He’s getting it out of his system.”

“And that’s usual?” Draco asked.

“Oh, ever since we were at school,” said Ron. “He’d make excuses to wander off. At first I thought he wanted a wank but you wouldn’t do that by the lake, would you?” He moved towards the kitchen and shouted at the front doorway, “You’ll take leftovers whether you like it or not, mate!” 

Harry mumbled something in the affirmative.

“No tact whatsoever,” said Ginny.

“I don’t know, he’s always been tactful around me,” said Draco truthfully.

“Since when have you joined Ron’s fan club?” asked Ginny. She tilted back in her chair, surveying Draco in a manner that reminded Draco uncannily of her brother.

“Well, people change,” said Draco. 

“No, they just reveal themselves,” said Ginny. She was giving Draco a hard stare, and it dawned on him that she was trying to protect Ron, by choosing to see him as she always had. 

“You know him best, of course,” said Draco. Ginny quickly turned her smile into a scoff and pecked Hermione on the cheek before going to help her brother in the kitchen. (Krum trailed behind like an overgrown puppy.) In his sixth year, Draco pegged Ginny Weasley as someone he wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. He decided to amend that to someone he wouldn’t want to meet in an alley under any circumstances, including broad daylight.

“Siblings,” Hermione said. It was an olive branch. She was swirling the wine around in her glass, not drinking.

“Exactly,” said Draco, grateful for the offer. 

Hermione gave him a half smile. “Why have you joined my husband’s fan club, though, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“He gives me hope for Scorpius.”

“What, that he’ll someday marry the minister for magic?” She wasn’t kidding. Draco appreciated that at least one person in Harry’s inner circle wasn’t falling all over themselves in modesty. 

“That he can be good,” said Draco. “He’s good, you know? He doesn’t have to try. He just is.” He was talking about Scorpius, but found he was thinking of Harry, who did things like sort his elderly neighbor’s rubbish bins after dark so no one could pin it on him. 

“I know,” said Hermione. She let go of her wine glass and folded her hands at the table. 

“I’m not like that,” said Draco, unnecessarily. 

“Nor am I,” said Hermione, surprising Draco. She was at a near whisper. “Ron just thinks I am.”

“Well, maybe he brings it out in you,” said Draco. “That’s lucky, Hermione.” He wondered if he’d overstepped.

Hermione regarded him for a long moment. Then she smiled. “You might be the only person who’s called me lucky. Except for Harry. Everyone else just wants to know what my secret is.” 

“Well, is there a secret?” Draco asked.

Hermione stood. “The secret is that I’m always jealous,” she said. “And I am lucky.” There was a crashing sound from the kitchen, and she sighed with obvious relish. “Is that supposed to be your system working?” she shouted. 

“It’s all organized!” Ron yelled back. 

Draco thought he’d better check on Harry. He summoned his coat and pushed open the door to the front porch, leaving it half-closed. Harry was illuminated by two lights on either side of the awning, looking for all the world like a painting of a tragic hero.

“They said I should leave you be,” said Draco. “I still can, if you want. But I didn’t want to.”

Harry looked over at Draco and gave a weak smile. “This isn’t a test.”

“No, it’s more like a dare,” Draco returned. Gryffindors. He felt wrong and useless, afraid of moving closer to Harry and afraid to leave him alone. He hadn’t noticed anything amiss until now and he wondered if his instincts would ever catch up to this man’s behavior. “I can--”

“I get overwhelmed, sometimes,” said Harry. Draco didn’t dare move. “When I’m happy,” Harry went on. “It’s...unsettling. I don’t know what to do with the feeling.” _ Oh. _

“It’s a feeling. You’re not supposed to do anything with it,” said Draco. Astoria had said this once, that feelings weren’t tasks to perform or problems to solve, and that men never seemed to understand this. Draco closed some of the distance between himself and Harry, letting their shoulders brush against one another.

“The last time I felt like this I didn’t know my own son. I wasn’t paying attention, and something was stirring. I let my guard down and then--” Harry’s gaze was wild and desperate, and Draco caught Harry’s chin in his hand firmly.

“Then what, Potter? You saved us all, again.”

“But there’s always something,” said Harry. His eyes readily showed his fear, even behind fogged-up glasses. Draco understood why they came in handy, as a buffer. 

“You don’t always have to be the one to save us, though. There will be another prophecy. Someone else. Younger, I expect,” Draco added, hoping for levity. It wasn’t that he thought this was the moment for it, exactly, but that Harry was so used to people trying to lighten the mood it might feel familiar.

Harry turned his face away so Draco was forced to let go, and this was momentarily like being sixteen, watching Harry strut away from him. Then Harry took Draco’s hand and gazed out at the empty street. “Well, it isn’t fair."

“No, it’s not,” Draco agreed. Harry leaned against him, just briefly, and Draco felt the burden of new knowledge building inside him. Now wasn’t the time to say it, obviously, but it was probable that he loved Harry Potter. What a fucking farce. 

What bad, brilliant luck.

“Alright?” Harry asked, giving Draco one of those comically sexy half-smiles. “You were doing so well tonight, and...what, did I irritate you?”

“No,” said Draco. “I irritated myself, because I like you so much.”

The other corner of Harry’s mouth turned up, briefly, but genuinely. He might have been blushing. Draco almost regretted holding back, but Harry was distracted, and they’d both been so cagey, and it seemed like he’d actually have all the time in the world to tell him the full truth.

Instead, Draco cleared his throat and spoke more loudly than he’d intended. “Harry, you keep looking out there like…What do you see? Honestly, is something coming?”

The hum of the kitchen noise was stifled and Ron yelled, “Something’s coming!” Instantly the door flew open and Ginny, Ron, and Hermione were there, wands drawn, leaping into action like a middle-aged team of hired bodyguards.

“Harry, what’s happening?” Hermione breathed. She frowned as she searched the road and looked back at Harry and Draco, who did not have their wands out.

Draco felt very guilty, indeed. “No, it’s...oh no, I didn’t mean...I asked him if he saw something in the road. I meant...like a cat, maybe..I’m sorry…” He certainly wasn’t going to win any more points with Ginny, tonight.

But remarkably, Harry laughed. Really laughed, so hard he had trouble catching his breath until Ron clapped him hard on the back, and the rest of them started to relax. 

Ginny rolled her eyes, the last to withdraw her wand. “Well, at least we’ve still got it,” she said.

“Yes, good drill everyone,” said Harry.

“Speak for yourselves, there’s my knee gone again,” said Ron, frowning intently. His hand went down to his leg and he winced, then muttered a fantastic deluge of curses under his breath.

“Well, have you been doing your physio exercises?” asked Hermione.

“If they’re supposed to work, why should I have to keep doing them?” This was so ludicrous, such a deeply Ron question, that even Draco’s hand went to his mouth. He then realized Ron had rushed to stand in front of Harry, unlike Hermione, who was at his side, and Ginny, who was slightly behind him.

Someone had to stand where the action was, and someone else had to stand in front of that person to keep them from doing anything stupid. Ron signed up for a lifetime of that, twice over, which was a lot braver than the usual half-cocked chivalry Draco expected of Gryffindors. 

Harry chose Draco for the same reasons Hermione had chosen Ron. Draco and Ron were made of the same stuff, content to live quiet lives so long as they could be the loudest presence in the room, a little too volatile to face life head on but competent enough to come home to. You needed to be slightly damaged (or _ sensitive _, as Draco’s father would have said) to attract a Harry or Hermione, otherwise they’d have nothing to come up against. Loyalty was all it took to keep them coming back.

“Do you want to take him?” Hermione asked, nudging Draco. 

“Sure,” said Draco, who was a little giddy, as it turned out. Ginny huffed but there was mirth in her eyes. It was hard to be in a bad temper with the perfect stillness of the evening and Harry’s infectious grin.

“Draco would take care of me,” Ron said, to no one in particular.

“You could take care of yourself if you’d done your bloody physio exercises Ronald Weasley, and just because one person here is gullible enough to fall for what you think passes as charm--”

“I’m not actually happy with this arrangement,” said Harry, swinging an arm around Ron. “Come on, mate. Let’s get you inside.”

Hermione wrapped her arm around Ron’s other side and they helped him limp back into the house, while Ginny motioned for Krum to get their coats. 

Harry and Hermione aided Ron over to the couch so he could prop himself up. He soon wore a medi-pack and a scowl. The effect was charming (and not unattractive, in a way), though Draco would be the first to admit Hermione had a point about Ron’s charm coloring Draco’s viewpoint. 

Ginny thumped her brother on the shoulder on her way to the door. “Elevate it more, Ron.”

“What, my knee? I’m not an acrobat!” 

Krum stood awkwardly in front of Ron. It reminded Draco of two summers ago when Scorpius had come to Draco asking about a “friend” who needed to learn a safe sex spell.

“I have injury like this once, Ron, “said Krum. “After I stopped playing professionally. I had lost too much muscle tone because...vell, I’d stopped training hard. Then I join the rec league and pain is much better now.” He shifted his weight as if to drive this home and looked away, clearly wondering if he’d overstepped.

You could hear a pin drop. Harry looked like this was the best entertainment he’d had in a while, but at Hermione’s glare he lowered his eyes and appeared comically somber. 

Ron’s expression was, in one of the only instances Draco could recall, completely unreadable. He took in a breath and closed his eyes. Then he held out a hand and said, stiffly, “Thanks, Viktor.”

Hermione beamed at Ron. The adoration in her gaze was so profound Draco felt a lump in his throat. Harry squeezed Draco’s hand. Ginny tossed her hair, clearly pleased, though she was feigning embarrassment.

Draco wondered if Ron noticed, or if, like most people, he didn’t look back when love stared him in the face.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title is a line from “I can feel a hot one” by Manchester orchestra.
> 
> Up next: Ron returns to Weasley's Wizards Wheezes and learns the destabilizing secret George has been keeping for decades.


End file.
